


Rules for Surviving in Jakarta

by shrugemoji (mozaikmage)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Case Fic, Comedy, Humor, M/M, Minor Character Death, Out of Character, Romance, Translation from Russian, cops and robbers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-06-28 11:28:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 126,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19811368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mozaikmage/pseuds/shrugemoji
Summary: A not-so-short guide for those who want to learn how to hijack planes, come up with wickedly clever plans, sort out their personal lives and live through the experience.Translation of the Russian fic Правила выживания в Джакарте





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Правила выживания в Джакарте](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8170790) by [KuroTsuki_SW_2016 (KuroTsuki_SW_2019)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuroTsuki_SW_2019/pseuds/KuroTsuki_SW_2016). 



> This is my first time translating anything this long haha but it's just. such a wild fic. the world must know  
> if you've seen [this](https://twitter.com/Viktoriart1/status/1111371103773954055) [fanart](https://twitter.com/Viktoriart1/status/1117078871055261697?s=09) floating around on twit like I did it's actually fanart for this fic which is why I ended up reading it (and yelling at all my friends in dms abt a thing they cannot read)  
> OP gave me permission to translate it so I'm thrilled to finally go for it! not sure abt the update schedule (as fast as I can manage, I guess) but I have to finish this bc my favorite chapter is the second to last chapter and Everyone Needs To Read It

“I hijacked a plane,” Kuroo confesses. There isn’t a note of regret in his voice.

“You...what?” Bokuto asks dumbly.

“Armed with only a lighter, dude.”

And that’s the honest truth, but everything starts, of course, not with that.

Serious guys from Date hop on his tail in the Hague and then finally step on his heels in Melbourne. Tell him two years ago that these blockheads would chase him to the very south of Australia, and Kuroo would’ve laughed. In two days of running back and forth across St Kilda he doesn’t see a single kangaroo, but gets to know a bunch of Indians and a family of Sri-Lankan immigrants, hiding from Kamasaki and Obara amongst drying laundry on a balcony. It almost ends well: idiot Futakuchi, of course, shoots through the bottle of soda in Kuroo’s backpack, but in the end it doesn’t get in the way of him sitting on a Vietnam Airlines plane straight to Hanoi. A simple and ingenious plan that culminates in crossing the border on the northwest of the Vietnamese capital into China, and from there— wherever, be it Beijing or a Shaolin monastery.

Like all overly simple and not quite ingenious enough plans, this also goes straight to hell immediately.

When Kuroo, luxuriously seated in economy class and pressing his knees into the back of the seat in front of him, is about to ask the flight attendants about lunch, he sees Fukiage. Fucking Fukiage.

Slightly after that Date’s jack-of-all-trades catches him in the bathroom stall: he sticks a foot in the opening before Kuroo can close the door, walks in and genuinely suggests Kuroo fly to the destination.

“Well well, Kuroo Tetsurou. In six hours of flight our guys have just enough time to prepare for your arrival and  _ hands-off-you-bastard _ ...”

That’s the last thing he has time to say before Kuroo knocks him out by smashing his head against the rim of the toilet.

Two men locked in a single bathroom stall are a reason for any kind of suspicions. Kuroo washes his face, steps over the puddle of blood starting to leak onto the plastic, twists the lock a third closed and walks out, slamming the door hard— passengers in the nearest seats wince uncomfortably. He tugs on the handle. Locked.

Ahead of him an incontrovertible fact takes shape: in Hanoi, people are expecting him. Doesn’t matter if it’s the people from Date or mercenaries they hired— Kuroo doesn’t really care if they want to kill him from pure hatred or for a love of money.

Kuroo can almost hear the sounds of Hanoi collapsing, and the odds of him walking out of this jam beautiful and intact going down with it. Not just this jam— if it goes like this, he won’t even crawl out of the airport.

The flight attendant is wheeling her miraculous cart down the aisle— it looks like during Fukiage’s blitz-questioning he did in fact miss lunch— and Kuroo, sitting back down, unobtrusively asks for a cognac.

Cognac should improve the situation, but it doesn’t, and the nonstop flight path to Hanoi still looks like an unfiltered pain in the ass. He has about ten minutes before people start breaking into the bathroom and, feeling the seconds tick past, Kuroo desperately wants a smoke. Too bad he doesn’t smoke.

When the glass is half empty, he stands it on the tray table. A Boeing of three hundred plus people isn’t a taxi. Passenger planes don’t have parachutes, and if they did, the pressure change would still knock Kuroo into pieces— and wait, stop, the Indian Ocean’s underneath too.

He had to throw his weapons out before security to go through the metal detector as quickly and painlessly as possible. Kuroo doesn’t usually get attached to objects, although it did kind of suck to get rid of his sick pair of glocks, but not even they would have helped with entering an aeroport full of dumbasses from Date. Now the only weapon Kuroo has is a novelty lighter shaped like a Stetchkin automatic with a scratched-in engraving reading “Dear T. from K, cover your ass.” With the help of this lighter he could destroy maybe a couple of cigarettes, and the guys from Date are totally aware of what a real fire machine looks like. With this stupid thing the only thing he could control would be a plane full of civilians.

A plane.

Full of civilians.

Did he just think of that?

Damn, he did just think of that.

The lighter in his inside pocket presses into his ribs when Kuroo turns towards the window to hide the terroristic gleam in his eyes from the plump Australian woman sitting next to him. All of Kuroo Tetsurou’s simple and ingenious plans usually fall apart at the speed of a Formula-1 racer. And this plan is so complicated and so stupid, he’s almost speechless.

Kuroo grips his lighter and stands slowly, like he’s giving himself a chance to reconsider, or a a meteorite to crash into the plane, or a catastrophe to happen, but nothing does. Only the Australian next to him, tan, wrinkles smoothed out by excess fat, is watching him with a scared-suspicious expression.

“Breathe,” Kuroo tells her in English. “You have nothing to worry about.”

And knocks back the rest of his cognac.

The stewardess walking by turns around. Her blue hat almost flies off her head and her gaze turns expectant. That’s how they watch drunk passengers about to get rowdy. She looks at Kuroo getting up from his seat, and it’s great timing because he salutes her with his glass.

“Lady, take me to the head flight attendant, I must complain about this disgusting slop.”

After that, nothing goes okay.

***

“I should’ve killed you right in the bathroom,” Fukiage spits.

“What, mutually?” Kuroo supposes, banging Fukiage’s head against the door three times. Right on his fresh wound. Beating this guy against hard surfaces is becoming a welcome tradition.

“I’m watching you!” Kuroo yells over his shoulder to the pilots cowering in their chairs. “Don’t think about doing anything! And you,” back to Fukiage, “don’t even think about stealing my gun, bastard! This thing shoots, dude, seriously, it really does!”

The thing does shoot.

In thirty two years of life Kuroo’s learned one rule: the guy in charge is the guy who can shoot you through the head. Since the moment he, armed with a plastic lighter shaped like a Stetchkin automatic, disarms the captain of the crew and takes his normal Walther, half an hour passes. The balance of power shifts, so guess who’s the coolest dude here now.

(Hint №1: not the captain.)

(Hint №2: not Fukiage.)

(Hint №3: see cool hairstyle.)

Kuroo can only guess, but most likely, what happened was: regaining consciousness in the bathroom, Fukiage didn’t see him calmly awaiting his fate in seat C18 and went down the same path— if a bit more bloody and less cute— as in, stopped the head flight attendant, threatened her into putting in the code to the pilot’s cabin, and then...

Kuroo has a normal Walther with mid-caliber cartridges. The coolest guy in the room is the one who can shoot you through the head.

The shot turns out blind, blood leaks in an even stream from the hole in his forehead, Kuroo pins the body to the wall, trying not to stain his shoes, and tells the pilots without turning around:

“I know what you were up to over there. I saw everything.”

He didn’t see anything. But he assumes. And adds, seeing the concerned profile of the older pilot and the no less concerned back of the crew captain, “We’re not flying to Ho Chi Minh.”

The walls hum evenly. Behind the wide window over the control panel is a utopian landscape of white clouds. The second pilot covers his mouth with his hand, trying to get out of his seat, but Kuroo forcefully shoves his shoulder, stopping him. “You’re not going anywhere, vom out the window.”

Just open the window at 800 kilometers per hour and...

The last thing he wants in addition to the corpse in the corner is the smell of vomit in here. Although, Kuroo doesn’t intend to leave the room himself, or let anyone out: the last time the door opened, Fukiage broke in, almost strangled him with his bare hands, almost shot him with the Walther, and to top it all off the pilots probably managed to tattle about where the sudden hijacker ordered their plane redirected. Kuroo didn’t see anything, but he would’ve done it a thousand times if he was in their place. “You heard me? We’re not flying to Ho Chi Minh. Bangkok?” He suggests an alternative.

He has to change the destination. Ideally to somewhere that’s not the biggest city, somewhere on the continent. Ideally, something like Port Moresby in Guinea. There’s such a level of criminality there that every day more people die in stabbings than babies are born in their dirty hospitals. Kuroo’s actually not sure if they have an aeroport over there. Or hospitals.

“Pnom Penh?” Also his suggestion.

The second pilot is apparently fighting another wave of nausea. The gentlemen are concernedly silent. God, so he killed a guy in front of them, who hasn’t experienced that? Kuroo’s getting a little peeved, but doesn’t show it and just smirks cheerfully. “Palembang?”

Really, Bangkok and Pnom Penh do look like “not the biggest cities,” and Palembang in Sumatra isn’t even “not the biggest city somewhere on the content,” separated from the continent by the strait of Malacca. But Kuroo’s willing to forego the continent in favor of some big island, if he doesn’t run out of familiar city names first.

“Guys, who’s in charge here, me or you? Why do I have to do everything for y’all?”

Kuroo puts his sweaty palm on the back of one of the chairs and leans against the other with the fist squeezing the gun. He rolls his eyes.

“We can land in Danang,” the second pilot suggests in a thin voice, swallowing loudly.

“Vietnam?” Kuroo asks, pursing his lips. No, thank you, Vietnam— be it Hanoi or Ho Chi Minh— has a tendency of fucking him over. “Not worth it. Other options?”

“Maktan, in the Philippines.”

The Philippines go entirely against his plan of “getting lost either on the continent or on a big island.” Possible, but not desirable. Pros: he’s only been there once, when he was about nineteen, and back then people around him hadn’t yet developed the habit of shooting Kuroo on sight.

Kuroo shakes his head doubtfully. When he realizes the pilots are still afraid to look at him, says out loud, “Kind of a meh idea.”

“Mandalay. Although...” the second pilot looks at some indicators on the panel in front of him. “No, we won’t make it.”

Good. Guys from Shinzen have firmly established themselves in Mandalay anyway. And after the incident in ‘07 they shoot at everyone vaguely resembling Kuroo and only later check if it was even him. No one really loses anything if they can’t make it there. Except the bounty hunters Shinzen promised nine million kyats for Kuroo’s head.

“Where can we make it?” Kuroo asks briskly, glancing at the control panel.

If he wasn’t a homegrown terrorist in this situation, Kuroo would ask what the hell all these glowing buttons were for. This is his first time in the pilot’s cabin of a real Boeing.

The captain of the crew, older than the assistant and not as sweaty from fear, is looking at Kuroo with an expression reading “think before you hijack a plane.” And then gamely says “The closest landing site would be Indonesia.”

On one hand, Indonesia’s a great idea. Somewhere near its capital Bokuto with his guys are doing the dirty work of another creaky moneybags for some outlandish sum. Shirofuku— Bokuto’s assistant and ex, a little girl with a big shotgun— will definitely scratch Kuroo’s face off the minute she sees him, but scars are attractive on men, right? And while that crew pulls you into their troubles, they’ll definitely protect you from your own.

“So what are your ideas for Indonesia?” Kuroo still isn’t sure that he’s actually ready to go for that and what he’s asking out loud.

On one hand, Indonesia’s a great idea, because Bokuto’s there. On the other hand, Indonesia’s, well,  _ Indonesia. _

“Medan?” The commander suggests in a wooden voice, sweat shining off his forehead.

“Too far to the west.”

Alas.

“Pekanbaru?” the second pilot chimes in.

“Great, but like, shit, where even is that?”

The pilots fall silent, either judging him or considering.

After half a minute of silence Kuroo hears:

“The most optimal choice is Jakarta.”

“Jakarta?” Kuroo echoes weakly.

“Jakarta.”

That is a very, very bad idea. Really, it’s the worst idea of all the ideas proposed, even counting Mandalay. Kuroo rubs the bridge of his nose with his free hand. And then, with a weaker voice than a plane hijacker should have, says, “But I  _ can’t _ go to Jakarta!”

The commander irritably, and Kuroo would’ve understood in any other situation, turns around and demands, “Why?!” In his eyes Kuroo reads, “God, I’m so sick of you.”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that.” Kuroo smirks desperately. “How long until we land there? An hour? Okay, does your phone connection thing work? I need to make a call.”

“Bo, it’s me,” Kuroo starts. The conversation’s in their usual English. Kuroo’s always refused to resurrect the Japanese in his memory.

“So it’s you?” Bokuto asks, out of breath and agitated. In the background Kuroo hears a crack, shriek, and unhappy shout.

“No, it’s not me,” Kuroo immediately retorts, sensing a trap and another unknown situation where he might be to blame.

Bokuto starts getting angry. “Bro, is it you or not you?”

“Well, whatever you’ve got over there isn’t me. I’m here.”

And the reason Kuroo has always deeply valued and will always value Bokuto is because of— 

“Oh, then cool.” 

—that.

“So then what’s happening, guy?”

“Let’s pretend for a second, hypothetically, that in an hour I’ll be in the airport in Jakarta...”

“Bro,” Bokuto interrupts, and Kuroo can practically see him grimacing. “Bro, you can’t go to Jakarta.”

Kuroo can barely keep himself from sighing sorrowfully and at length. It’d be nice if they discussed something he doesn’t already know, yeah?

“Tell me about that in more detail,” he grumbles, because who in this part of Asia doesn’t know that Kuroo can’t go to Jakarta? Although, judging by the looks the second officer is giving him, he has no choice anymore. And now let’s say that out loud and destroy any possibility of turning back. “I have no choice.”

“Where even are you right now?”

“One sec.” Kuroo bends down between the pilot’s chairs and whispers, “Guys, where are we right now?”

“Flying over Yamdena,” swallows the second pilot and stares at the gun Kuroo’s still holding against his seat.

Kuroo mulls this over for a few seconds. 

“Yamdena, you know what that is?”

“No fucking clue.”

“Well, I’m like ten kilometers above that shit.”

“What’re you doing there? And are you like, in a plane?”

Kuroo understands if he just lays it all out, he won’t be understood. And there’s yelling in the background— is that Yaku? Where the fuck did he come from? But in the end he decides to say it.

“I hijacked a plane,” he confesses. There isn’t a note of regret in his voice.

“You...what?” Bokuto asks dumbly.

“Armed with only a lighter, dude.”

“Okay, bro...” starts Bokuto in a “this is not even remotely okay” voice. “Right, then, so, you hijacked a plane” — “He did  _ what _ ?!” is heard in the background — “and in an hour you’re going to land in Jakarta” — “He’s going to land  _ where _ ?!” — “on that same hijacked plane?”

“You were always the smart one.” Kuroo cheers.

“And you need someone to meet you there and pull you out of the clutches of all of our local cops combined?”

“If not the national army.” Kuroo glares at the pilots. “Anyway, in an hour. Aeroport, tons of police, shootout, possibly acquiring a few more firearms. Sound good?”

“And we’re with you? Fantastic!”

And, turning off the phone, Kuroo understands that this is also not at all good and not at all fantastic.

In a paltry sixty more minutes they’ll end up in the city where he hasn’t been in three years, happily wouldn’t show up for twenty more, and where every last dog knows him.

Moreover, every last dog there wants to kill him.

***

“Remember this day! The day you almost caught Kuroo Tetsurou!” In the next moment Kuroo doesn’t hit anyone and dives back behind the chassis of the plane.

“Get in the car!” Yaku shoots at the guards like they’re targets on a board, then hides behind the black bulletproof minivan. Someone ask him why he’s even here.

Not that Kuroo’s against it. Kuroo’s definitely for. He won’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but “plus one” to a party turns into “bring everyone you know and those you don’t know, meet them and bring them too.” It’s like a whole team for rescuing Captain Kuroo Tetsurou from the paws of the British naval officers.

“Can you hurry up, moron?”

And that’s Shirofuku, the aforementioned little girl with a big gun, sitting about twenty meters down the airstrip and hiding behind a bright orange tech support automobile.

The minivan carrying the rescue team is directly between them. It’s a comfortable cover for Yaku, reloading unhappily. Kuroo has nothing to reload; the Walther had ten cartridges in its magazine and he’s already used them all.

Kai is steadily watching him through the back window of the minivan. In his face Kuroo can read “Young man, you should be ashamed of yourself.” He’s not even blinking, the bastard. For the time being Kuroo prefers to ignore Kai’s displeasure, especially because he has some distractions. Bokuto, his bleached-white head visible above the crowd, breaks the thin rows of the local guard with a ground attack. Meanwhile Yaku, shooting the police officers, aims like the winner of a zombie-apocalypse simulator game.

And it all would’ve looked like a scene from a cool action flick if not for the “What’s wrong with your hair, dumbass?” Shirofuku casually throws at Kuroo without even looking at him. She reloads her gun. “You look even worse than before.”

And she climbs out of the shelter, emptying half a magazine into a dude trying to attack Bokuto from behind. There’s a guy with a good guardian angel.

“Can we not discuss this now?” Kuroo yells at her, trying to out-shout the gunshots and other people’s cursing.

“When did a cat die on your head?” Shirofuku refuses to let up.

“Kuroo, get in now or I’ll shoot you myself!” Yaku opens the door of the minivan on his side and darts in.

Team “rescue Captain Kuroo Tetsurou from the paws of the British naval officers”?

Team “drive Captain Kuroo Tetsurou to suicide,” more like.

Yaku hides in the car and when that goes in reverse it looks like a very good opportunity. Kuroo covers his head with his arms, curls into a ball and runs as fast as his legs can carry him until he flies into the second row of seats in the minivan. Inside he stretches across the seats face up, with only his legs sticking out of the open door. The whole time bullets slam into the window over his head. 

“Tora, go!” Yaku commands, and the automobile starts abruptly. Kuroo almost falls off the seat onto the dirty rubbered rugs, but Shirofuku shoves him down from above, bending his knees in another direction. “Grab Bokuto and let’s get out of here.”

Tyrant, dictator, despot. First the minivan, then Poland, then the world.

Looks like Yamamoto’s running over someone.

“God, up close that dead pelt looks even worse.” Shirofuku, trying to catch her breath, smiles triumphantly, sliding down the seat.

Kuroo is an adult, but he’s not going to protest.

“Hey, it draws attention away from my face,” Kuroo does not protest. “When you’re on the run, that’s important, got it, woman?”

Kuroo unsuccessfully tries to yank his legs out from under her. What did they feed this lady the whole year since their last encounter in Budapest? Yaku on the third row is busy with his small-hearted loathing, next to him is Kai and some other dude. They’re silent, and Kuroo is thankful for that. He needs a minute to look at the ceiling and catch his breath. Of course, he won’t calm down until Bokuto’s in the car and Shirofuku gets off his legs.

She loudly closes the door, without getting up, and the door slides into place with a dull clap. Bokuto lands on the front seat and Kuroo finally removes his limbs from Shirofuku’s presence.

“Let’s go, go, go! Drive!” Bokuto slaps his knees, tugs Yamamoto’s elbow, twists around fussily and turns back around. “Damn, cool! We got ‘em!”

“Man, stop moving, you’re in the way,” Yamamoto barks impressively and steps on the gas so sharply Kuroo almost slams his face into the seat in front of him. That’s when he decides to sit.

“Yaku, damn, switch places with Kai, I can’t see shit because of his head,” Yamamoto requests, and then jerks left. Kuroo flies headfirst into the seatbelt attachment. 

Shirofuku falls on top of him, the rest of the backseat passengers stack themselves into a sandwich, and Bokuto grabs Yamamoto’s elbow again. “Fucking hell dude, calm down!”

Yamamoto clearly doesn’t like this. Yamamoto’s never had the control of an anger management self-help book author. In extreme situations he instantly loses his temper. And if weaving around small planes and service vehicles in a hail of bullets isn’t an extreme situation, then Kuroo doesn’t know anything about extreme situations.

“Kai, sit in Yaku’s place, I said,” Yamamoto demands, and thanks to that, Kuroo gets to gleefully watch how Kai and Yaku switch places while trying to avoid the human centipede. “There might be a chase.”

“God, noooooo.” Shirofuku sounds exactly like a wife whose husband again, for the hundredth time, turned on baseball instead of the Kardashians.

The car shakes hard when they scrape against the curb, roll along the chain-link fencing they crushed when they entered, and finally get to the turf covering. The road leading into the city is about a hundred meters away and if it weren’t for Yamamoto’s words, it’d be a reason to relax.

“Fucking hell, Kuroo!” Yaku’s irritation is fairly justified, but Kuroo would like to contest his surname’s place at the end of that exclamation.

It’s more like “fucking hell, guards,” or “fucking hell, cops,” or “fucking hell, police cars,” but Kuroo has nothing to do with it, really.

The siren sounds as soon as Yamamoto furiously spins out onto the road.

“Tora, can you shake them?”

“What else am I gonna do?” Yamamoto grumbles under his breath.

Bokuto, who seems only delighted by the possibility of a chase, thumps him in the shoulder with a fist. “You got this, I believe in you!”

“I’ll have this if you stop waving your arms around!” The other snaps. “And yeah, Kai, bend down, or switch places, damn.”

“Oh my God, shove off!” Yaku hollers at him. “Kai, lower your head.”

“Yaku-san, maybe it’d be better if you switched places? You’re short, so Yamamoto-san would see better.” Kuroo actually turns around because of this, doubting whether or not he heard correctly.

Jesus, he — whoever this kid might be — actually said that. He really did say that! Made a dig at Yaku’s height in his very presence! An inspiring suicidal tendency awakens in that third body in the back seat — an unfamiliar young man about twenty years old at most, in a long cassock with a crooked collar. Kuroo didn’t see him at the airport, which means he must’ve spent the whole shootout in the car.

Yaku meanwhile is reaching for the dude’s throat, but Kai’s in the way, so he yells “Let me crawl through and strangle this kid!”

“Fucking incredible,” Kuroo cackles, turning around completely so as not to miss a single gesture from the actors in this play. “I didn’t come here in vain.”

“If you didn’t come here,” Yaku starts, crawling over a bent-over Kai and judging by the hissing noise accidentally elbowing him in the ribs. “Sorry, accident. Lev, stop kicking me! Anyway, if you didn’t...”

“You’re trying to hit me, why shouldn’t I defend myself?”

“Lev, shut up.”

What kind of a name is that— “Lev?” Bokuto kneels on the seat and, putting his hands on the seat back, laughs. Shirofuku covers her eyes with her hand, Yamamoto growls with rage, and when Kai is finally moved to the side, they can see the twinkly lights of several police cars.

“Lev, stop struggling, Kuroo, moron, stop laughing...” And here, glancing at Kuroo, Yaku’s expression suddenly changes.

He stares disbelievingly, and then ironically raises his eyebrows, loosening his grip on the silver-haired kid’s neck. The kid uses the moment to move as far from Yaku as possible and press his face to the window.

“What’s that?” The now-calm Yaku asks, raising one brow.

“Where?” asks Kuroo, raising an eyebrow in response.

“On your head,” Yaku responds.

God, not again. It seems like by the end of his first day here, if they’re not all in jail, Kuroo’s going to get a forehead tattoo reading something like “leave me alone, it’s my hair.”

“My hairstyle,” Kuroo replies, as though he’s talking to a child.

The yellow circle in the sky is the sun, Yamamoto just cut someone off, and on Kuroo’s head is an entirely normal looking hairstyle.

“Is that a helicopter?” the gangly kid with the weird name asks suddenly.

“It’s my hairstyle,” Kuroo repeats.

“No seriously, it’s a helicopter,” and the dude points at something in the sky, almost flattening his nose against the glass in the process.

For a few seconds silence reigns in the car, and that’s when it’s clear that outside the car it’s not silent at all. Not because of the road rumbling under their wheels, or the police sirens, or the indignant honking of drivers they cut off, although all of this contributes to the melodic cacophony of the chase. Somewhere above them huge blades whirr, and something is being said through a loudspeaker.

“It really is a helicopter!” Bokuto exclaims, delighted.

Kuroo winks at him. “All for you, Bo.”

“Tetsurou, this is serious,” Kai says, preachy, squinting into the sky through the rear window.

Like he doesn’t know that.

All the jokes serve to cover a single simple truth: they’re in deep shit.

***

The first car they switch out after mere minutes: Yamamoto brakes somewhere at the start of the southern regions, they fly out onto the street and run, shooting at the idling cop cars. Somewhere above them the helicopter rumbles, but Kuroo doesn’t even raise his head because he understands: they’re in the trenches, now.

While he runs after everyone else, memories pop up in his head one after the other. Yaku’s thought of everything, as usual, and they weave through a narrow alley in a single-file line to their second ride. The film strip in Kuroo’s head keeps sparking from the familiar sensations and voices.

A shootout in a small cinema; drunken musical nights at the Queen Elizabeth; the corpse of a white girl on the railroad tracks; the dark silhouette of the Catholic cross against the sunset-pink sky; a knife fight in Jalan Jaksa and the wet shlooping sound of the blade pulling out of his skin; street vendors in straw hats and the clatter of plastic bracelets for six thousand rupiahs; curry rice in Kota Tua; a tan prostitute with soft hands and wide linen pants; church vehicles with expensive leather seats; the cacophony of a traffic jam in the narrow streets of Old Town; throat-burning Indian food in Big G’s eatery; an open cigarette packet and the clear crackling package of cocaine on the altar below a statue of Christ; Kai, absentmindedly throwing a bullet casing up and down in one hand; a cluttered apartment in the southernmost corner of Thamrin, with the biggest bath Kuroo had ever owned; the Church; the Church again.

Yamamoto steps on the gas almost before Kuroo even manages to slam the trunk shut.

A Toyota Prado is obviously smaller than a minivan, but it has a bigger trunk than most hatchbacks, into which two huge adult men can tightly squeeze themselves. As a result Kuroo and Bokuto find themselves separated from the rest of the interior by the back seats.

“We need to get to Prepedan,” Yaku orders. He crashes onto the shotgun seat. “Right, Bokuto?”

Bokuto jerks his head up, stares uncomprehendingly for a few seconds, and then nods. He shifts the massive spare tire to fit his ass more comfortably, like he’s floating in a pool— just missing a cocktail in one hand. “Yeah, Konoha’s supposed to leave a car there. Where there’s an intersection with the exit to the park. In a big warehouse of building materials.”

"You don't have a more specific address?" Yaku inquires in such a mean voice that Kuroo, throwing dirty rags into the far corner of the trunk, wants to throw one of the rags into Yaku's head for daring to talk to baby Bo (over 180 cm tall with a 50 cm bicep circumference) in such a voice.

“On that street half the buildings look like warehouses,” Yamamoto humphs, driving out onto the highway.

“Hey, I thought of everything, I have a google maps screenshot!” Bokuto scrunches his bushy eyebrows together and pulls his phone out of his pocket, passing it to the front. “Yukie, pass this forward, please.”

For a few seconds, Kuroo doubts they’ll really be able to break away. Police cars, now without sirens, are hot on their heels coming off another access road, but then half of them turn in the direction of the city limits, and the helicopter making noise somewhere to the right of them instead heads towards the center.

Shirofuku passes the phone with the map to Yaku, who looks at it and nods. “We’re changing cars and heading to the Church.”

Damn.

“I think the old man would really love to speak with you, Kuroo.”

Damn!

“He’s coming back tomorrow morning,” Kai informs them softly, with the expression of a man who walked into a death-row inmate’s cell to tell him “not today.”

If the brave guys led by Futakuchi showed up in Jakarta, Kuroo would need all the help he can get, and just Bokuto won’t cut it. Getting his friends/minions/nannies to help with firepower obviously won’t work anymore, which means his only hope is the Church, which means— there’s no more hope.

“Coming back from where?” Kuroo asks.

“None of your business,” Yaku snaps. “Pray he doesn’t execute you.”

“Or at least doesn’t recognize you,” Bokuto snickers.

“First of all, praying is  _ your _ business, O Holy Father, second. Bokuto,” Kuroo turns around and glares at him sternly. “I have a normal hairstyle.”

The road to Prepedan is going to be a long one.

***

For about twenty minutes they drive in relative quiet, save for Shirofuku crinkling a wrapper from something, Yaku and Kai discussing matters in a whisper, and the blond kid periodically asking stupid questions, yanking Yaku’s sleeve. Yamamoto turns on the radio.

“... and now for more news. The wedding of Gunther Perkasa, the son of representative Hema Pertiwi, will take place in the family residence on Situpattengang Lake. More than five hundred people were invited to the celebration, all participants may..”

“Hey, what?” Yamamoto asks, when everyone starts looking at him through the rear window. “Don’t look at me like that. I can’t drive in silence!”

Prepedan Street is concentrated Jakarta. Kuroo doesn’t feel a wave of nostalgia (this city isn’t a place you can miss) but looking at the rusty siding of small houses, the painted over once-white fences, the graffiti covering up other graffiti, the mopeds lining the curbs, and a feeling of familiarity washes over Kuroo, even if he’s never been to this part of Prepedan. All of Jakarta looks exactly like this: like an anthill constructed from trash found under your feet.

“Tora, stop, we’re going there.” Yaku pokes the right edge of the front window.

Kuroo stands up again. Their destination point is distinguished by a high slate roof and shiny corrugated metal walls.

From this car they get out without haste and calmly change seats. Kai even has time to shake hands with one of the workers who jumps down from the stacked bricks.

“This is the most pathetic car I’ve ever seen in my life,” Yamamoto mutters under his breath.

Kuroo extends his legs forward, sitting on the edge of the open trunk and stretching his neck. The most pathetic car in Yamamoto’s life is another minivan— this time peeling, with a dirty blue color peeking through ochre paint, with stickers from a tourist firm and a dent where the left headlight should be. Bokuto, rocking back and forth on his heels, shrugs his shoulders and lowers the corners of his mouth. Kuroo agrees: Yamamoto has not seen pathetic cars.

Kai is laughing at something with the man in the jumpsuit, shakes his hand again, says, “Time to go,” and goes towards the car.

While they’re getting seated, Kuroo tells Shirofuku “ladies first,” like a gentleman. As revenge for that, she stomps on his feet when she crawls into the vehicle.

There’s about a half hour’s drive to the Church, which stands on the south-east side of the city. Outside, twilight is starting, cops are nowhere to be seen, nothing seems to be foreboding anything terrible. But when the minivan stops at a traffic light, Yaku says, “Now, Kuroo, we need to discuss a few things.”

This time, Yaku’s sitting in the back row with Kai and Bokuto, and the long kid’s in the front seat.

“Now?” Kuroo echoes dumbly, sensing a trap.

“Now that no one’s chasing after us for sure,” Yaku repeats.

And then there’s a click and Kuroo notices that almost all of the rods in the car are pointing at him.

“Hey,” Kuroo says indignantly. “Really, this? Instead of hugs? Guys!”

Yaku demonstratively flicks the safety off of his beretta. More specifically, both berettas, in both hands.

“Go around on 7,” he tells Yamamoto, furrowing his light brows. Yamamoto doesn’t even turn to look at Kuroo, and Kuroo now has a gaping wound, a hole in his very heart and soul. Soon he’ll have a hole in his hipbone if Shirofuku doesn’t move the barrel of her gun away from Kuroo’s side.

Kuroo decides that staring an agitated Yaku intently in the eyes is the same as signing up for suicide, so he looks to the left and urgently tries to change the subject.

“By the way, what even is this?” He points at the gangly one. The gangly one has to fold himself up to avoid breaking the glove compartment but even he — can you imagine! — is aiming a gun at Kuroo. “And why is it aiming at me?”

“Oh, that’s Haiba Lev,” Bokuto inserts cheerfully, bending over the backseat. The only person not poking Kuroo with a weapon. “L-E-V. The one you so determinedly ignored. He’s a new choir boy.” Kuroo jerks from the memories of that position. “In the Church. Dang, can you imagine, he’s over 190 cm tall!”

“Nice to meet you,” Lev says politely. To be honest, Kuroo could’ve guessed himself that Lev is new: his cassock is pitch black, not faded, practically crunching when he moves. “And... I’m just following Yaku-san?”

“And if Yaku-san jumps off a bridge, you’ll jump too?” Kuroo snorts skeptically. Just imagine, if everyone copied Yaku, he, Kuroo, would not have lived till twenty years old. “You couldn’t find yourself a better role model to imitate?”

And instantly shuts up because usually, when Yaku lowers his eyebrows another millimeter more, the next morning a corpse turns up somewhere nearby. And Kuroo doesn’t want to be that corpse. But he can’t shut up for very long. “Guys, come on, we were getting along fine. I’m hurt.”

“We were also hurt,” Yamamoto grumbles from behind the wheel, “when you absconded with the whole revenue from the party in Shanghai.”

“Deeply hurt,” Yaku confirms.

“Kuroo-san stole the whole payoff from a deal?” Lev pokes his long nose in from the front seat, shyly sticking his gun out from behind the headrest.

It would’ve been cute if Kuroo liked when people pointed long, thin, inorganic objects at him.

“Kuroo-san stiffed us on the payoff from a deal,” Yamamoto corrects, and pulls a steep U-turn. “He dumped his own!”

“Chill, this isn’t GTA,” Yaku barks. “And you, Lev, put the gun away and sit quietly, got it?”

“But Yaku-sa...”

“Lev!”

Using the internal strife to his advantage, Kuroo questioningly, almost imploringly, looks at the only sane person in this clown car. “Kai, can you at least tell them!”

“When you return the ten thousand dollars, sure,” Kai agrees kindly. Kuroo feels backed into a corner. These sons of bitches. And he came to them with a pure heart!

“What about mercy and forgiveness?” he asks.

“What if I write a check?” Again, more insistently.

And then he relents. “Fine, fine. So what do I have to do so the old bishop doesn’t end me?”

As if that were the only problem. Half of Jakarta sleeps and dreams of ruining Kuroo’s lovely face.

“Should’ve thought of that earlier,” Yaku snaps.

What a drag. Who even thinks about consequences?

Trying to weasel out of these unhappy prospects, Kuroo shifts in his seat and finally comes up with a way to intelligently change the subject. Especially because this question really has been bothering him for the better part of an hour. “Not that I’m against it, I support all your decisions. Your life, your reckless choices. But uh, by the way—  _ why are you all together? _ ”

Yaku tsks. Evidently, the fact that Kuroo and the heavens bless the Church’s union with Bokuto and company doesn’t mean that Yaku himself blesses it.

“Don’t change the subject, got it? Just think about your problems with the bishop.”

And then after a pause reluctantly drawls, “You mean you haven’t heard what’s happening in this city?”

“Dude.” Yaku’s face demands he stop calling Yaku that while he’s holding Kuroo at gunpoint. “I haven’t been here in three years, and wouldn’t have been here a lot longer, if some fuckers from Date didn’t cut off my escape path, and the brave pilots Frank and Michael didn’t betray our friendship. How should I know what bullshit y’all are suffering from here this time?”

“Date?” Shirofuku asks, opening one eye. The barrel of her Mauser is still staring directly at Kuroo and bringing him a palpable discomfort. “You got all of Date after you? ... Oh.”

Kuroo would’ve answered her, but it’s hard to say a lot to a person holding a cannon level with your genitals. Shirofuku’s always been a smart girl, the bitch. So he switches to Bokuto, who’s asking, “Wait, bro, what about Date?”

Bokuto puts his arms on the back of the seat right behind Kuroo’s head. With that behind him, Kuroo feels somewhat calmer.

“Aone.”

Kuroo says this word half-glancing at Bokuto. He is possibly the only person not just in this car, but in all of criminal Jakarta, who doesn’t want to shoot Kuroo.

And Bokuto’s face lights up with understanding. He even wants to say something, probably something encouraging and hopeful (Kuroo doesn’t doubt his friend) but then Yaku gets into the discussion. “Are you stupid? How did you even manage to get Aone on your tail?”

“Let’s talk about it in the confession booth, O Holy Father,” Kuroo jokes, nervously laughing and making a scary face. Because it’s a long story. And Kuroo quickly returns to the previous topic.

“So what’s with this friendship and tolerance party? The last time we all saw each other, Shirofuku promised to shoot you through the head. And now, look, you’re all sitting in one car, closer than the court-ordered minimum...”

“Ha, ha, very funny,” Shirofuku says tonelessly, opening a lollipop with her teeth and spitting the package bits onto the floor. “It’ll be funnier when I shoot your dick off.”

Kuroo isn’t sure that’s going to be funny. Of course, she won’t shoot him, that’s as clear as two times two. But he’s still uncomfortable with the gun poking him in the place he, according to popular belief, thinks from.

“Let’s not go to extremes,” Kuroo begs in a weak voice. Like he’s ever going to even sit next to her again. “How about y’all lower your rods and we discuss why everyone here is so mean.”

“I think it’s obvious.” Yaku moves the barrel in an arc, nodding at Kuroo, clearly assuming something impartial.

“No.” Kuroo doesn’t want to bring the topic back to himself, because that’s fraught. “You are for some terrible reason working together. You have, what, a temporary alliance? Bo, you and your guys have only been here for a week and a half, right?”

“Have you heard about Ukai?” Yaku doesn’t let Bokuto answer.

And really, that is a very, very unexpected question.

“Senior? You kidding?” Kuroo smirks, trying to adjust to such a jarring subject change. “Who hasn’t? He’s a criminal celebrity. The Michael Jackson of money forgery!” Kuroo turns around. “Why? Did he suddenly pop back into existence in Jakarta?”

Kuroo has a thousand theories, and that’s the most probable one, since Yaku’s suddenly remembering the counterfeit money legend. Stories about Ukai have been going around the underworld for more than a decade. Having a Wikipedia page made about you proves someone’s popular, Kuroo thinks. Especially if the page starts with the word “genius.”

The only problem is that no one’s heard anything about Ukai in many years. “Mysteriously vanished,” and all that. There were a lot of rumors: people suspected he’s been stuck under a false name in some third-world jail, or that Interpol finally got their hands on him. Gossip too. It’d be awesome if he’d resurfaced. Hopefully not face-down in Ciliwung. Kuroo doesn’t print money, but he’d gladly take an autograph.

“Well, he was in town,” Yaku says, hiding the gun, for which Kuroo is extremely grateful.

“Was?” The know-it-all look disappears from Kuroo’s face. “Ukai? Are you serious? When’s the fan meet and greet? Is the dress code casual or do I need Yamamoto to run out for a tux?”

“Was, but we don’t know where he is now,” says Kai, crushing Kuroo’s hopes and dreams.

Life is a lot more pleasant when nobody’s aiming at you, except. “Shirofuku, hide the weapon, you can shoot me when we get out of the car. So what’s with Ukai?”

“We don’t know where he is now,” Kai repeats. “No one knows, even though we searched the whole city. The point is, before he disappeared, he released a set of perfect dollar printing stereoplates onto the underworld market.”

Kuroo winces skeptically. He doesn’t believe that someone could make perfect dollar stereotypes, not even a genius like Ukai. Or else there’d be a bunch of...

“Are they American dollars?”

“Yeah.”

Americans poking about. But he hasn’t noticed a single capitalistic face yet. And still Kuroo doesn’t get it. “Okay, so, Ukai’s in Jakarta, made the plates, dumped them on the market. How’s this related to the fact that you’re all BFFs now?”

There’s a pause. Kai makes an exaggeratedly carefree expression, like’s got nothing to do with it. Yaku frowns— evidently there’s something mixed in there that  _ really  _ pisses him off. In the end Bokuto’s the one who speaks. Starting, as usual, from a distance, scratching his shaggy head. “Remember I said we needed to hand over who knows what in a scary suitcase?”

“We” meaning Bokuto’s small but multipurpose team of employees. A brave quarted, armed with a sharp intellect (Konoha Akinori, age thirty three), unrealistic strength (Bokuto, thirty four, and Shirofuku, always a little over twenty), and something else— Kuroo’s not sure what the new girl’s specialty is as they just hired her about a month ago.

Kuroo digs around in his memory, which spits out, “Bro, bro, we’re going to Serangan, handing over some shit and picking up two mill for it. Need to say hi to anyone in Jakarta?... Wow, okay, stop yelling.”

And also, “Dude, this suitcase is soooooo weird, there’s an electronic lock, and a normal one,  _ and _ a passcode, and like, what do you think is inside? Pieces from Noah’s Ark? Elvis Presley’s comb? It’s probably the Holy Grail! Or like...”

“Oh, the Aztec gold?” Kuroo nods like he knows what he’s talking about. “Yeah, I remember.”

Yaku casts a suspicious glance on both of them. “Aztec gold?”

“Or a crystal dildo.” Kuroo shrugs. “We never decided. So what was with the suitcase?”

Bokuto scratches his head again, and starts looking around the interior, embarrassed. “Well, we made the deal, got our pay in gemstones, were going to leave the next day, and then...”

“Then we got robbed,” Shirofuku finishes, showing off her ability to deliver hard truths.

Kuroo freezes, hand halfway to scratching his nose, and then looks at Bokuto, who’s angrily pursing his lips, and then at Shirofuku, who’s peacefully opening the window to throw out her lollipop stick.

“Who dared?” Kuroo is genuinely surprised.

Incredible. Who could’ve thought of robbing Bokuto? It’s fucking Bokuto Koutarou! Wanted by the governments of fifty-eight countries!

“Cartel,” Yamamoto answers.

“The  _ Sunrise Cartel? _ ” Kuroo repeats, and slowly whispers, “The motherfucking Sun-Rise Car-tel?”

Ideally Kuroo would rather never hear that name while residing in Jakarta, but here he is, damn it, discussing the Sunrise Cartel.

And before anyone can answer him, he can’t take it anymore and asks, “So old man Washijou’s still alive, I guess?” Mournful nods instead of words. “There was dust falling off him before I even left. What about the others? Ushijima? Or whats-his-face...”

“Ushijima is also better than ever,” Yaku responds sourly. “And Tendou, in case you were wondering.”

“Fuck, Washijou’s alive, his favorite henchmen are alive, what a day this has been,” Kuroo mutters under his breath, wiping some sweat off his forehead. The shirt he wore out of the airport, covered by a bulletproof vest, is soaked through. “Ugh, guys, let’s close the windows and turn the A.C. on.”

“Great idea, but it doesn’t work,” Yamamoto grumbles. “I found out while everyone was aiming at you.”

Turns out a lot of interesting discoveries are made in the world while Kuroo is being aimed at. Considering he's spent a third of his time since age 15 convincing people not to shoot him, all of life is just passing him by.

“Okay, okay, don’t grumble.” Kuroo waves him off and whistles, getting everyone’s attention. “Yo, choir boy, open the window wider, I’m not getting the breeze. Okay, let’s continue.” He turns back, all business now. “Bo, how’d you even manage to let the Cartel rob you? Since when did they steal from freelancers passing through? Or did you cross their path?”

“We didn’t cross anything.” Bokuto crosses his arms and gazes mournfully out the window. “It wasn’t even your... Ushijima and Tendou.”

“By description.” Shirofuku nods, scratching the back of her head with her gun. “No one even knows who this guy was. Apparently someone just wanted to prove himself.”

Kuroo shakes his head. “Damn, Bo, you managed to blow it on some rando?! No like, I get Tendou, that fucker’s always been sneaky, and Ushijima I’m scared to breathe the same air with. But some nobody?”

“Leave me alone.” Bokuto humphs and turns away from Kuroo, showing off his repeatedly broken nose, and sadly murmurs, “We weren’t ready.”

“Okay okay, sure, you weren’t ready, they got the drop on you,” Kuroo waves his hands in a conciliatory gesture. If Bokuto sours now it’ll suck more for Kuroo than anyone else. “But what about these guys?” Kuroo nods towards Kai and Yaku. “Console you in time?”

“And now we’re back to the stereoplates,” Yaku announces without ceremony. Remind Kuroo not to entrust his wedding or funeral to Yaku: he’d ruin all the most important episodes of Kuroo’s life. “Their estimated value ranges from ten and a half to thirteen million.”

“Dollars?” Kuroo whistles. For that cash he could pay all the Date guys to chase each other.

Yaku shakes his head and Kuroo frowns. “Rupiahs? Yen?”

“Euro.”

“Holy shit...” Kuroo widens his eyes. He’s in shock. “And what... Wait, Bo, your gang’s also in on the hunt for these sacred stone tablets of the Old Testament? To ease your financial burden?... Are y’all struggling that much?”

“Not really.” Kai shakes his head and wants to say something else, but Bokuto interrupts.

“Well, we decided to combine forces. The Church is interested in these— how’d you call them, that was cool— yeah, sacred tablets. We want the money, yeah, thirteen million, bro!” Kuroo can’t even argue with that. “But originally it was more like...not that... and we got together like an hour and a half ago...”

With every word Kuroo’s eyebrows inch higher and higher. His understanding of the present state of events, unfortunately, does not increase proportionally. 

The fuck was even happening in this city while he was busy hijacking a plane?

Yaku pulls a bent pack of Marlboros out of the pocket of his cassock and lowers his window. “He’s not gonna get it,” Yaku comments, pulling a cigarette out with his teeth. “You have to hear it from the very beginning.”

“Oh yeah, because y’all are intellectuals here.” Kuroo makes a face at him. “Wait no, hold on, what bag of money? I thought we knew the price. Your perfect sacred tablets,” (“Stereoplates,” Yaku grumbles) “Did they sell already?”

Everyone hesitates again, and Kuroo gets the feeling the uncomfortable silence is hiding another story.

“Well, yeah.” Kai finally nods. “They sold. A few times.”

“A few, meaning a fuckton,” Yamamoto adds. “And were stolen just as many times. They went from hand to hand more often than ten rupiahs at the market.”

“Come on, a fuckton?” Yaku pauses to light his cigarette and inhale. “Only twice. Because Daishou sold them...”

At that name Kuroo’s almost bursting from curiosity, because those kinds of interactions are never a coincidence.

“Daishou?” Kuroo interrupts. “What? How’s he involved? Is it his fault? It’s definitely his fault, I guarantee it.” Kuroo gestures wildly. “Everything ever is always Daishou’s fault. I have no idea what kind of shit’s going down here but Daishou totally started it.”

Yaku freezes with his cigarette next to his mouth and stares at Kuroo judgementally. Then takes a drag and says, “Could you try not jumping to conclusions with no information at least once?”

“Guys, I may not know anything, but I do know that everything is...” Kuroo continues anyway, powerless to stop.

“Right, you don’t know anything. So shut up and listen.” Yaku cuts him off. “And you always say it’s Daishou’s fault.”

“So what?” Kuroo protests. “Have I ever been wrong?”

“How about the last eight times?” Kai jumps in.

Yamamoto adds, “Or the time you convinced the bishop to arrange a raid on his apartment because of a shootout in the Arab quarter, but it turned out—”

“That wasn’t my mistake!” Kuroo protests. “It—”

With a click, Yaku aims the gun at him again. Only thing left to do is to shut up. Shirofuku is giggling. And when Yaku questioningly raises an eyebrow, Kuroo mimics locking his lips and throwing the key out the window.

“The last time Daishou,” Yaku starts slowly, “sold the stereoplates to a young Japanese gang and got their money. But the plates stayed on the market, because Terushima planned to sell them...”

“Terushima? That painted parrot in the crocodile-skin shoes?” Kuroo asks.

But Yaku either doesn’t have the strength to rein in Kuroo, or he correctly understands that while you can keep Kuroo’s criminal activity in check, his personality is another matter.

“Yeah, that Terushima.” He nods. “In that crocodile skin.”

It’s been three years and that loser’s still wearing his tasteless shoes. And then Kuroo realizes, “Hold it! How can Terushima sell the plates if Daishou’s already sold them?”

“Terushima didn’t sell them,” Kai clarifies patiently. Shirofuku giggles again.

“Yaku just said Terushima shoved them on someone.”

“He wanted to, but didn’t.”

“How could he want to, if Daishou already sold them?”

“Well, he stole them from Daishou’s buyers.”

Huh, Kuroo might’ve been a bit too hasty with his conclusions after all.

“Technically,” Kai says, “Daishou stole them twice: before and after the Japan—”

“You’re mocking me,” Kuroo exclaims.

Shirofuku’s laughing openly now.

“Shit, bro.” Bokuto slaps him on the shoulder. “Seriously, we got confused with all this bullshit too. Forget about it. The finale’s the important bit.”

“And what’s the finale?” Kuroo inquires suspiciously, trying to make some kind of sense of this chaotic information.

Bokuto holds a dramatic pause, at which Yaku rolls his eyes, and then answers, “The fact that someone stole the sacred tablets out from under the noses of both us,  _ and  _ the Cartel.”

“It’s Daishou.” Kuroo reacts automatically.

“You just landed.” Kai smiles condescendingly, but Kuroo sees how he’s tensed for some reason. “What gave you that idea?”

In response Kuroo looks at them like they’re children. “The most important law of the jungle: check Daishou first. I’ve been telling y’all this my whole life.”

Yaku, Kai, Bokuto and Shirofuku all exchange a glance, like they’re playing a game Kuroo doesn’t know anything about. And when it starts to get on Kuroo’s nerves, Yaku slowly says, “Well, in reality, Terushima did say he was the most likely suspect... But that doesn’t prove anything, and I don’t want to hear anything about how he’s definitely to blame simply because he almost bit your nose off when we were fifteen!”

“Ear, not nose,” Kuroo corrects him, “and we were sixteen. And when did you talk to Terushima? Actually, to be honest, I didn’t understand anything.”

“Because this isn’t a five minute conversation. The only thing you need to know now is that all of Jakarta’s on the hunt for the plates of this fucking legendary money forger, which he released like a time bomb. The bishop will tell you the rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation notes: if I spelled any of the indonesian words wrong I was transliterating the cyrillic from the original fic back into latin letters so might've messed up somewhere there. if you notice something feel free to lmk  
> additionally: in russian there's one single word that means "sacred stone tablet carrying religious writings, such as the ten commandments moses brought down from mount sinai"  
> in english there is not. I've decided to compromise and just say "sacred tablet" every time but if u have a better idea for that again feel free to lmk


	2. Chapter 2

Like any godless heathen, Kuroo judges places of worship based on the artistic quality of the saint’s portraits, the security of their donation boxes, and the comfort of their benches. So there’s nothing surprising about the fact that the Catholic church on the banks of the garbage river Ciliwung, with its dreary walls, terrible benches, and the slogan “neither for me, nor for the people” gets a solid C and spit on the threshold.

Although, if Kuroo spits in this sanctuary of faith, the bishop will then spit on his cremated remains.

Kuroo can feel every individual bone in his body, which hates him because he fell asleep curled into the fetal position on hard wood. How many times has he told himself to not sleep on the church benches? As many times as he’d told himself to not sleep where Yaku could wake him up. Turns out over three years, Kuroo’s forgotten more than he should have.

“Wake up, service starts in twenty.” Yaku’s hanging over him in a halo of light from the narrow stained glass window, and then soullessly and painfully kicks Kuroo’s dangling leg. He’s too harsh for someone with the rank of church deacon, but perfectly soulless for being a thug.

“What time’s it?” Kuroo moans. He’s insanely thirsty, and he puts his palm on his Adam’s apple, trying to moisten his throat with saliva, and then winces.

“Time to get your ass up.” Yaku nods. He slaps Kuroo’s knee. “What’s with these dirty boots? People sit here.”

If people sit here then they sit here. With a groan, Kuroo pulls himself into a sitting position. Yaku is watching him with indescribable schadenfreude. It’s very hard for Kuroo to restrain himself from flipping Yaku the bird.

And then Yaku, without letting Kuroo recover, delivers a phrase that would ruin anyone’s mood. 

“Get up. The Bishop’s expecting you.”

***

There’s no light in the monastic cell. Tall, narrow stained glass windows fill the space with red and blue stains that spread out across the stone floor, the oak table, the black cassock on Naoi’s shoulders.

The old man lowers a painted porcelain cup — Italian or Spanish manufacture, he doesn’t believe in cheap tableware — precisely in the halo of a colored stain on the table.

In the total silence, Kuroo slowly bows his head to his neck, tendons stretching.

“So, you wanted to return to applause, boy?” The old man clicks his tongue and narrows his foxlike eyes.

Actually, Kuroo loves applause, but not when it causes more problems instead of helping, and especially not when it sounds like police HK45s firing. So his answer to this is: no, he did not want it. Honestly, “wanted to return” is definitely not how Kuroo would describe his feelings about Jakarta.

“Not exactly,” he says, hardly lying.

The old bishop— still short and squat, with a kindly cunning face and a maroon cassock embroidered in gold— dejectedly sighs, feigning sympathy.

“Are you not happy to see me?” Kuroo knows perfectly well that the only way he could make this man happy would be by dying early.

Nekomata stares at him for a few seconds, tapping his chin with his fingers, like he’s weighing him, and then drawls, “You stole my money, Tetsurou.”

“I didn’t steal,” Kuroo says in a perfectly serious tone of voice. Naoi’s looking at him condescendingly, his expression reading “Taking someone else’s stuff and running means stealing.”

In Kuroo’s head spins the childish “I didn’t have time to give it back,” because that insane Iwaizumi from the biker club Citadel chased him into a corner. Kuroo had one choice— die like Saint Stephen in the name of God or run from Jakarta fast, without a change of underwear but with ten large on him.

Kuroo usually got out of hopeless hellholes like that with no problems, smiling here, winking there, but the bishop couldn’t stand that kind of thing.

“You owe me ten thousand from the suppliers in Ambon.”

And as soon as the topic turned to money, he got even more frightening.

“I don’t have that kind of money right now,” Kuroo, collecting himself, admits, feeling like he’s committing the greatest mistake of his life. Not counting the time when he ate two chili peppers raw on a dare. Or the time he decided sending Yaku on a date with a girl 197 cm tall was a good idea.

“Then give me at least one reason” — the old man stretches his lips into the friendliest of his smiles — “for me not to end you.”

“Well, I’m cute?” Kuroo tries.

The degree of danger on Kuroo’s internal survival thermometer rises to a stratospheric level. Kuroo can already smell something burning. Judging by the tranquil face of the bishop, he could blow at any moment, so Kuroo rushes to rehabilitate himself. “I can be useful! You’ve known me since I was nineteen, Bishop.”

“Eighteen, Tetsurou,” Nekomata corrects him. “Since you were eighteen. And your destructiveness quotient. Calculate the compound interest on that in the last three years. Tell me again why I shouldn’t have you killed?”

“I don’t have anything against a few excellent killings.” Kuroo swallows, scanning the place out of the corner of his eye. On the left is the archway to the prayer hall. On the right are the doors to the sacristy. “Only if none of them have to do with me.”

And finally decides, “Father, but why are you...”

“Manabu, shoot him through the knee,” the Bishop orders calmly. 

“Okay, okay! Let’s not freak out right now! Naoi, lower the cannon.”

Nekomata is amused. “Don’t like this option?”

“Bishop,” he’s begging to be called “you old bastard,” but Kuroo resists. “You only have two deacons. Me and Yaku are so synchronized, you wouldn’t—”

Nekomata interrupts, “In the house of God there is one deacon right now and that’s Tora.”

“What, did you fire Yaku?” Then what the hell is that guy doing here? “No, you... You promoted him? He’s a priest now? Bishop, that’s unfair!”

In the most criminal church of Jakarta rules a strict vertical hierarchy: your clerical rank determines your position in the group. Right under the nose of the Catholic elders the servants of God manufacture the best synthetic heroin in Indonesia, and also traffic it, because church shipments are monitored differently by the government. Kuroo, as a man slow-cooked in this shit under the watchful eye of Jesus for almost a decade and working his way up to the rank of deacon, understands what a promotion in the church of Saint Lascano means. He also understands that he really does not want to be subordinate to Yaku.

“Isn’t he too young?!”

“You’re the same age.”

“Then why am I still not a priest?!”

“Because, while I am abbot, in this Church your only promotional opportunity will be to the rank of corpse if you don’t stop annoying me,” Nekomata answers calmly, tapping his spoon against the edge of the teacup.

They sit in silence for some time, until Nekomata, taking a sip of tea, says, “But really, you’re in luck, Tetsurou. You picked a good time to visit your old stomping grounds. I have a job for you.”

Sounds suspicious. And Kuroo understands the word “job” does not imply that he’s going to get paid for it. But does he have a choice?

“Tell me, padre.” Kuroo throws one leg over the other, dashingly, having been convinced no one intends to explode his kneecaps. At least for now. “Yaku briefly informed me of what’s up. You’re taking part in the chase for the mythical treasure?”

Nekomata noiselessly sips from his cup and asks neutrally, “Mythical? You don’t believe the stereoplates exist?”

“Oh, don’t you start.” Kuroo smirks condescendingly. “Of course, the kids are impressionable and getting carried away by the concept, but  _ you  _ must understand how likely it is that it’ll all come up empty in the end.”

“You ever hear about Marcus Glindon?” Nekomata asks suddenly, locking his fingers and resting his chin on them. Small, with few gray hairs, with an innocent face and a sweet voice, he looks like a kind grandpa from a nursing home. But if you fall for that lie, you could end up losing a few limbs. Or your life.

“There was something in the news,” Kuroo answers vaguely.

“In ‘07 Marcus manufactured fourteen million coins at the value of one British pound. In Britain, obviously. According to the statistics, to this day one pound coin out of every forty is a forgery. A forgery almost indistinguishable from the original. They’re still only managing to take a few of the coins out of circulation, after dozens of expert appraisals.”

“Talented guy.” Kuroo whistles. “I think I recall that. He did time for it, right?”

“Not my point,” Nekomata coughs. “Marcus Glindon was the student of Ukai Ikkei. He used Ukai’s unfinished prototypes and technology and adapted them to manufacture British currency. Ikkei himself, letting Marcus test his own developments, focused on American dollars.”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard about. Came to Jakarta, started up production here somehow, and then for some reason vanished, putting his precious stereoplates on the ma—”

“ — We established the production here.” Nekomata chuckles, interrupting him. “Together.”

“Meaning?”

“I,” the bishop repeats. It seems like he’s enjoying the confusion on his former subordinate’s face. “And Ikkei. Last February he flew to Jakarta, and four months ago we started the first printing presses.”

“You and Ik— wait, you two, like, know each other?”

“We’re very old friends.” Nekomata nods, concentrating on playing with his teacup.

Kuroo almost falls on the table from shock. “In Jakarta? Right under Washijou’s nose? With all due respect, your Excellency: Are you crazy?”

Kuroo rubs the bridge of his nose, and then raises his head and squints disbelievingly. “For such a careful person as yourself, and only for the opportunity to print money that’ll get discovered sooner or later— if not the Cartel, then the government... I don’t get it.” He waves a hand. “How long have you been in the drug business— twenty, forty years? It’s stable and brings the big bucks. So why the hell?”

“They’re faultless, Tetsurou,” Nekomata smiles. “The fake is impossible to discover.”

“That’s impossible.”

The bishop gestures in Naoi’s direction, who nods, turns towards the safe and pulls out a package: an ordinary bag with an ordinary wad of cash, the kind the Church’s clients use to pay for their purchases.”

“There, look.” Nekoma nods.

Kuroo, not hiding his curiosity, reaches for the bag, and then drops back into his chair and pulls out a few bills. He’s not a forger, but he knows cash, especially dollars— essential for the profession. Yaku would say here that his actual profession is driving everyone around him bonkers.

“This Ukai’s work, then?” Kuroo clarifies. The bishop nods, gives Naoi a signal, and Naoi hands him another hundred-dollar bill. “And these are the real ones... Alright.”

And he instantly has to admit: by feel, they’re genuinely identical. No cellulose, only cotton and linen. The proportions are so close to the original, they might be only a hundredth of a percentage point off. Ukai really is a genius.

The structure of the paper is translated so precisely, that not the ink or the color or the contents reveal any differences between the bills, no matter how many times Kuroo examines them under Nekomata’s mocking gaze. The paint feels real, the color looks eyedropped from the original, and raking a nail against good old uncle Ben, Kuroo feels the obvious relief. He practically scrapes both bills, trying to find at least something, but no. Identical thickness. Detailing. Edging. Serial numbers.

Kuroo frowns.

“How did he fake the fibers?” he asks, not tearing his eyes away from the money. “They’re not drawn on, they’re embedded  _ in the paper. _ Stencil? Offset?”

“The plates walking around town right now aren’t just stencils for ink. It’s a complex technology that takes into account several varieties of serial numbers so it’s possible to change them. Of course, the printing presses themselves are important too. We bought them in Iran, they imitate the ones at the mint in Washington. Really, no profit, or so I thought— those presses went out of circulation in ‘04 and were going to be destroyed in total secrecy, but they managed to ship them out of the country. Anyway, it took Ikkei another half a year to...” Nekomata searches for the word. “Modify those presses. It’s hard, but possible to get ahold of them, if you know where to look and aren’t scared of the consequences. But the stereoplates... that’s bespoke work. He convinced me to hold a... trial run.” The bishop chooses his words carefully. “We released one of the final sets of fakes in Hawaii and informed the police. The set was seized.”

“No,” Kuroo says, suddenly realizing where this is going. “Don’t even say it out loud!”

“The set...”

“I won’t believe it!”

“... was declared genuine. And the report was deemed a false alarm.”

Kuroo stares at the man like he’s seeing him for the first time in his life.

This shouldn’t be possible. It’s a fairytale for young criminals who think the underworld is full of action and drama, like a Guy Ritchie movie. Everyone loves stories about outlaws who do the impossible.

But Kuroo knows full well that criminals can’t do miracles. They can’t bend away from bullets like Neo, or vanish trailing money like Eisenberg. And they don’t make perfect counterfeit money that the US Mint declares genuine.

“Insanity,” Kuroo says, gobsmacked. “It’s just insanity.”

And that fucker Nekomata just drinks his tea and laughs. “I thought you were the most... _ special  _ guy in Jakarta. And you find it so difficult to believe in ‘insanity?’”

“If by ‘special’ you mean ‘a little nuts’, padre,” Kuroo answers distractedly, still in shock. “Then I’m not ‘special,’ I’m eccentric. Look at my hairstyle!”

“It’s horrible.” Nekomata nods and sets the cup down. “I hope you’ve recovered? Now’s the time to discuss how you’ll pay me back.”

“What” — Kuroo knows perfectly well there’s nothing good in his future — “are there options?”

“For you, no.” Nekomata smiles. “So, you want to know why Ikkei vanished first?”

“Actually yeah, good question.” Kuroo brightens. “If everything was going so smoothly, why close the shop?”

“We didn’t plan on it. But when the Cartel gets involved” — the Bishop furrows his eyebrows slightly, a grotesque sight considering he’s still smiling — “you can’t plan anything in advance.”

“Well, obviously, they sniffed it out,” Kuroo sighs almost sympathetically. “It’s the  _ Cartel.  _ Speaking of, if heads rolled, why hasn’t the Church been leveled yet?”

“Because I’ve been alive for a long time, and I’m not an idiot, Tetsurou.” The bishop smiles. “Also because the most secret part wasn’t the money production but my partnership with Ukai. None of the guys knew, except Manabu. The truth only came out after the Cartel came after Ukai.”

“Didn’t want to stand out?”

“You have no idea how much. If Washijou found out that anyone in Jakarta was supporting Ukai, he’d have destroyed that idiot completely, and his whole gang.”

Kuroo doesn’t even know if he should be happy about the new gossip or feel sorry for himself. Since Nekomata’s told him about his collaboration with Ukai and since he’s still alive, that means this is all still a secret behind seven seals. And that means Kuroo knows too much. A law of the genre, fucking hell.

“You probably haven’t heard this story. Ikkei and Washijou don’t get along.”

“In what way?” Kuroo asks, feeling how sharply the tables turn in the story he’s about to get sucked into. “We’re talking about the leader of the Sunrise Cartel here, not some yanki from the Japanese quarter.”

“In the most pronounced way you could possibly imagine.” Nekomata wipes his apparently dry hands and shakes his head. “Washijou hates Ukai. In the sixties Washijou and I did almost twenty five years for him. In Gitarama.”

Kuroo can’t control himself. He twitches and blinks, staring at the bishop’s face.

He knew the man did time, but it’s the first he’s hearing about Gitarama. Bokuto, serving a sentence in Rikers, sometimes made dark jokes about prisons like Gitarama: “In my life everything’s cool until I get myself into Gitarama or Carandiru.” Gitarama is hell on earth, where prisoners eat each other to survive, corpses aren’t cleared for weeks, and there isn’t just a shortage of beds, there’s a shortage of places to lie down. People have to stand around the clock, until their feet start to rot.

“You did time in Gitarama?” Kuroo blurts out, swallowing. “For twenty five years?”

Nekomata smiles — Kuroo thinks, if he’d spent time in a place like that for even a few days, he’d completely forget how to do that — and carelessly waves his hand.

“Escaped in a revolt in ‘91 and ended up here. Washijou got out a few years earlier. I think one of his deputies paid a ton of money to manage that. I didn’t have any money back then.”

“What got you in there?”

“Very long story.” Nekomata shakes his head. “Big job, high stakes, and Washijou was impulsive and reckless.” He chuckles. “Nevertheless he still thinks Ikkei just needed someone to take the fall.”

“And you?” Kuroo frowns.

“And I... well, let’s just say, Ikkei and I decided that for the fortune that was awaiting us, a sentence for one of us wouldn’t be the biggest loss. Obviously, I didn’t want to go through that,” he admits fairly easily. “But look at what I have now.”

“You decided?”

“Well, of course, mostly it just turned out that way. We didn’t have a lot of options. Ikkei had to choose who to sacrifice, he ran with the cash, and Washijou and I got caught by the Rwandan police.”

“And after that,” Kuroo says, disbelievingly, “after twenty five years in Gitarama he arrives in Jakarta, and you decide to open up a little money shop with him?! After he sold you out? What the hell? You may dress like a saint but I didn’t realize you actually were one. You should’ve grabbed Washijou and dumped Ukai into a scorpion pit first thing!”

“Not everything is what it seems to be at first glance, Tetsurou.” Nekomata scratches his elbow thoughtfully. It’s an old habit of his, and now Kuroo suspects that under the sleeve of his vestments there might be a huge ugly scar. “They were never friends. Ikkei and I— yes, but they never got along. And Ikkei never planned to set  _ me _ up.”

“Naturally.” Kuroo smirks, meanly.

“I arrived in Jakarta practically naked, coming off the Rwandan boat. Whose money did you think this Church was built on? Whose money did I hire people with? And who do you think paid for the operation, so I could walk again?” Nekomata chuckles. “Don’t think too much, Tetsurou. Ikkei never betrayed me, and I never betrayed him. All plans go wrong somewhere.”

Kuroo smiles too, instead of tsking irritably. He personally supports Washijou’s position here: kill the bastard who forced you to go through hell on earth. It’s not even revenge, it’s reinstating karmic balance in the universe. Although, since Nekomata’s on Ukai’s side, Kuroo has no reason to go against the flow.

“But you’re right, I risked a lot, agreeing to produce in the Cartel’s city. Nevertheless it’s because of him I have the most solid alibi on the island: Washijou thinks I hate Ikkei just as much as he does.”

Too much information in one day. Kuroo shakes his head.

“When the Cartel got on his tail, Ikkei had to run. He couldn’t leave the plates in the Church, or cross the border with them, so he put them on the market.” He smirks. “As always, risky plans are his style. He left the country without being able to pass them to us, and now I have to run around the city with everyone to get them back. That senile old bat, in the name of our Lord.”

“As I understand it, we’re finally getting to the events of this century?” Kuroo sighs.

“Exactly. Are you familiar with Terushima?”

“Oh yeah, we’ve shot at each other over girls a few times. Or profits, I don’t really remember. The guys mentioned him, but you know them. So what about Terushima?”

“He was the first person to buy the stereoplates when Ikkei put the call out around town. Like all dealers of his caliber, he understood he couldn’t start production himself, so he decided to sell, especially because Ikkei let him have them practically for free. The kid understood what he’d nabbed but, as we know, decided to find a buyer with money. And turned to Daishou— shut up, I remember, and we don’t have time for that now.”

Kuroo deeply disagrees: there’s  _ always _ time to accuse Daishou of all the sins on Earth.

“Daishou found a buyer— one of the guys from the Citadel club, those Japanese bikers, I think Aikewa or Aikowa. But according to Terushima, Daishou tried to screw him over, stole the goods right before the deal and tried to sell them to a Japanese gang from Bojong. And he sold them, for thirteen million.”

“Daishou’s always known the value of a dollar,” Kuroo grumbles. “But then someone stole something from someone again?”

“Daishou got the money,” Nekomata confirms, “but the plates weren’t with the buyer for long— Terushima stole them back. And Daishou’s money. In other words, he took revenge in one move for two hundred percent of the original profits.”

“These aren’t the holy sacred stereoplates.” Kuroo raises his eyebrows. “This is a hot potato.”

“At the same time bigger fish came after Terushima and his chaotic movements. The Cartel showed up at his door. And so did we. Although, when Yaku broke into Terushima’s apartment, he didn’t know that Ushijima and Tendou were already there.”

Kuroo cackles. “I’m never going to forgive myself for missing that!”

“And then after Yaku got into the two by two apartment, your friend and his crew fell in.” Naoi has one hand on his forehead, apparently for a reason. “They didn’t even know what was going on in this city.” Nekomata shakes his head like he still can’t believe it. “Your Bokuto just wanted to get back the jewels the Cartel’s lackeys stole from him... And decided to have a chat about the matter with Ushijima personally.”

Kuroo doesn’t think it’s possible to laugh louder. There’s not enough decibels.

“Hold up.” He raises his hands, still laughing. “So, Ushiwaka with his poker face, Tendou, with his maniacally sparkling eyes, Yaku, pretending to be some kind of dwarf berserker between them, and then there’s bags of money and the stereoplates on the floor, and then Bokuto? Bursts in?”

“Through the window,” Naoi confirms, voice dull.

“What?” Kuroo’s ready to applaud right now. “Just like that?”

“You forgot to mention Terushima chained to the radiator in the corner, but yeah, your friend really did fall in through the window on the tenth floor.”

God, Kuroo will tell this story to his grandchildren.

“So what? Bokuto showed up, solved everything.” He’s gotta stick up for his friend in front of the boss. Although, in this situation, it’s more likely the friend needs to stick up for Kuroo instead of the other way around. “So why aren’t the sacred tablets in our hands yet?”

“They’re called stereoplates,” Naoi says condescendingly.

Kuroo waves him off. “I like this better. So why?”

And here, Kuroo feels, they’ve reached the most problematic part of the saga. Because Nekomata sighs and says, “Once everyone stopped aiming at each other and decided to interact constructively, turns out there was nothing in the bags. They were stuffed full of styrofoam... and bricks.”

“Daishou’s signature,” Kuroo cuts in, “like for sure.”

“Your drive to blame Daishou for everything is astounding,” Nekomata sighs again. “But Terushima said the same thing. The point is, your favorite enemy from your childhood and teenage years vanished yesterday evening without a trace. And that’s where your job begins, since you’ve deigned to visit us.”

Any job relating to Daishou and the possibility of punching him in the face automatically becomes Kuroo’s job. According to Kuroo, at least.

“Okay, let’s pretend for a second I accept. What’ll I have to do?”

“Find Daishou, find out his goals, determine the current owner of the plates, get them back. And not steal anything in the process. Can you manage that?”

“Agreed,” Kuroo says, as though he’s doing everyone a favor by agreeing. “But I have one condition.”

Nekomata and Naoi’s faces are so sour, you could squeeze them and use the resulting acid to dissolve unworthy corpses.

Kuroo crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not wearing any more churchy clothes.”

***

He ends up back on the street in a cassock, and Yaku, the little shit, doesn’t even hide the wide grin on his thirteen-year-old-looking face.

“I wouldn’t be laughing if I was your height,” Kuroo says darkly, flipping him the bird. “Let’s drive behind the corner so I can take this shit off. How do you even walk in this?”

***

“You,” Yaku jabs a finger at Lev, turning towards him commandingly. “You sit in the car. And do not come out. Understood?”

“But...”

“No buts. You do not leave the car, you do not get out to buy soda, you do not chase after a street food vendor, you just stay put.”

“By the way, whose wheels are these?” Kuroo calls out from the back seat.

“But why can’t I go with you?’

“Because I said so. And because you’re not going anywhere with us for a long while, if you keep shooting yourself in the feet like last time.”

“That was an accident! I didn’t—”

“Hey? I said, whose car—”

“Mine!” Yaku barks. “I asked, Lev,  _ do you understand? _ ”

The boy pouts dramatically, straightens his cassock and stares closely at the steering wheel, but when Yaku smacks him quickly confirms his understanding nature.

“You’re training him very diligently.” Kuroo snickers, slamming the car door. “What is he? Half-Serbian?”

“Russian.” Yaku walks around the car, glaring sternly at Lev one last time through the front window. “His only real use is his driver’s license.”

“Where’d the padre pick him up?”

“At the Elder Sisters.”

Kuroo stops, freezing in a half-turn and looks at Yaku. “The Elder Sisters? Meaning he...”

“Meaning he’s a younger brother to one of them. Don’t be a dick, yeah?”

“I’m not being a dick, you said Sisters, what was I supposed to think?” Kuroo widens his eyes, but Yaku, apparently uninterested in continuing this conversation, starts patting himself down in search of his cigarettes. In the last three years he could’ve started smoking a different brand, at least.

But Yaku’s Marlboros aren’t the only things that’ve stayed the same.

“Shit.” Kuroo sticks his hands in his pockets and sighs deeply. Yaku stops next to him, lighting up, and judges him with a mocking expression. “I forgot how much this city sucks.”

Only tourists call Jakarta beautiful, seeing her glass and metal center through the window of a tour bus. The residential zones, especially those housing the less privileged layers of the population, were many things: loud, dirty, overcrowded, concrete, yellow from the sun and year-round thirty-degree heat— but not beautiful.

The building in which Daishou had, according to the most recent sources, been living, is a low apartment building, stretching along the road like a concrete snake. The facade is disfigured by rusty fire escapes, through which yawning windows stare at the street, laden with laundry and white growths of A/C units. Dried out palm trees, dust, the noise of cars, motorbikes abandoned by the entrances.

So much sun. Kuroo feels his sweat-damp t-shirt stick to his skin. The hair on the back of his head is wet.

“Be nicer to your hometown,” Yaku reminds him.

Kuroo raises a finger. “I, actually, was born in the lovely town of Tokyo.”

“Should’ve stayed there, then, why blight Jakarta with your presence?” Yaku shrugs. “Let’s go.”

And they do.

They go to precisely the third floor. On foot— no elevator to speak of here. Kuroo cheers up, watching Yaku sweat in his heavy church vestments, and revels in the knowledge that he never has to follow their dress code again. Coming up to the shoddily-painted door, he nods: here. Yaku pushes him away from the door— his elbows are still as sharp as they were three years ago— and, not finding a doorbell, bangs on the door with his fists.

“Who’s there?” A woman’s voice asks guardedly after a few seconds. 

Yaku arches his brows questioningly, Kuroo rolls his eyes in response. Yaku slides the side of his hand across his throat, demonstrating what will happen if Kuroo doesn’t stop pretending to be a dipshit, and, coughing, announces, “Mail.”

Wow, Yaku, good job. Exactly with that kind of deathly serious tone mailmen go about their deliveries to apartments.

So, when there’s a scuffling behind the door, clearly indicating that the young lady wasn’t awaiting any morning correspondence, Kuroo calls out, “Mika, Mika, wait! It’s me.”

The scuffling quiets. “Who is ‘me’?” A half-scared, half-aggressive voice asks from over there.

Kuroo purses his lips in hesitation. Yaku demonstratively makes an inviting gesture, like, continue, since you’re the smart one here.

“Kuroo,” the smart one here reluctantly answers. “Kuroo Tetsurou.”

No reaction from behind the door. The silence is so deafening, Kuroo can only hear his own heartbeat and the whistling sounds of Yaku’s patience withering away.

Kuroo stops that with a motion and tries again. “Remember me, Mika? Suguru, you, me...”

Silence.

“What, did she die of shock?” Kuroo grumbles under his breath, tugging on the door handle to no avail.

Yaku, skeptically observing his attempts, adds “From grief. That you’d been brought back.”

“Shove off. I have the feeling she recognized me and ran away, although I have no idea why...”

He freezes, leaning against he handle, and stares at Yaku. Yaku stares back with the exact same expression.

Well, fuck!

“Fire escape,” Kuroo realizes, but Yaku’s already started down the stairs, pulling his glock out of his belt on the way and skipping several steps.

If Mika’s decided to avoid productive conversations, then following the old man’s orders and doing everything quietly won’t work. So Kuroo, without worrying too much about it, jumps back a few meters and empties half the magazine into the lock; the foyer’s acoustics hurt his eardrums. Hopefully in a place like this the neighbors don’t need to get used to it.

The door creaks pitifully, when Kuroo yanks it as hard as possible, and gives. The hallway’s empty, bedroom too. Kuroo runs into the kitchen. 

And almost greets a baseball bat with his forehead.

If the situation was a little less tense, and if Mika hadn’t whacked him on the shoulder with her full strength, Kuroo would definitely have laughed it off, but instead he just inhales loudly and hisses, biting his tongue from the pain.

“How rude!”

“Don’t come near me!” Mika declares, loudly and fearfully. She winds up again, like a seasoned batter.

Kuroo puts his palms up in a pacifying gesture, but doesn’t have time to say anything, because Mika makes another attempt to acquaint him with her aluminum friend. Kuroo didn’t really enjoy the first time, so he jumps aside and smoothly pulls the girl’s arm towards him. The bat flies past. Unfortunately, he pulls a bit too hard. Instead of falling into his arms like any sensible woman, Mika falls towards the stove.

Behind her back Kuroo suddenly sees an almost fantastical image: having crawled up the fire escape, a familiar priest is opening the window. In his long cassock, white collar and with a cross around his neck. He yanks the window up, and for a second Kuroo imagines that he’s about to say “Good day, would you like to talk about our lord and savior Jesus Christ?” but instead Yaku just says “Fuck!” He barely has time to duck before the bat makes contact with the glass above his head. The window explodes into shards, falling onto his robes and the floor. Mika freezes, evidently horrified that she’d almost beheaded the holy father.

“Why does all this shit start happening whenever you show up on the horizon?” Yaku hisses angrily, stretching.

“Admit it.” Kuroo smiles widely and sticks his gun directly under Mika’s shoulderblades. “You totally missed me.”

Judging by the unhappy face he makes, Yaku is determined to hide his affectionate feelings to the last.

***

After a few minutes Mika’s sitting on a chair in the corner of the kitchen, rubbing her wrists and glaring like she’s about to sue. Kuroo’s almost repentant. They stay in the kitchen: four walls, worn doorframe, water damage on the ceiling. The disaster of the slums brought to respectability by a neat feminine hand. Mika’s always been able to turn even a complete wreck into something acceptable. Like Daishou, for one.

These paneled box-homes are built in three months: all with identical floor plans, terrible ventilation and mercilessly tiny rooms. Kuroo in his day spent about five years in a similar cupboard under the stairs situation, and it’s hard to imagine what kind of circumstances might’ve chased Daishou in here. That guy always tried to live comfortably.

“Why did you try to run?” Kuroo peacefully hides his gun in its holster.

Yaku isn’t the model of friendliness and trust, so he doesn’t take his eyes off the frowning Mika. He leans against the wall next to the intermittently buzzing fridge. Traffic rattles outside. Kuroo digs his heel into the upturned corner of the linoleum. Mika is silent for too long. Evidently, she’s not planning to speak, and Kuroo, not leaving the linoleum be, starts throwing out suggestions.

“You tried to run, but you weren’t as scared of us as you could’ve been. Expecting more guests?”

Mika stubbornly looks away, but Kuroo doesn’t need her conformation. He knows he’s right.

“The fact that Suguru’s mixed up in this was revealed to two” — Kuroo raises two fingers — “cheerful groups of guys yesterday. We, of course, are the coolest, but the Sunrise Cartel also knows how to have a laugh.”

Mika looks up so suddenly that Yaku jerks automatically, reaching for the gun underneath the top layer of his vestments.

“The Sunrise Cartel? They did..what yesterday?”

Oho, that means she doesn’t know. Maybe Daishou stole the bags and never came back here.

“Discovered,” Kuroo repeats, “that Daishou’s the one who stole the lottery prize from under their noses. You do know they’re looking for the sacred tablets too? All of Jakarta knows.”

“Stereoplates.” The only thing saving Kuroo from a thump upside the head is that either Yaku’s too lazy to reach or he values his position in the center of the room too highly. “They’re looking for money stereoplates.”

Either all of Jakarta knows, except Mika, or the information that a gang of thugs led by Ushijima is now after her fiance was the worst news Mika’s received all day. But Mika’s shoulders fall suddenly, like a rod was pulled out of her. She hunches over, hiding her face in her hands, and for a fraction of a second Kuroo feels genuinely sorry for her. Because love really is cruel, and if you’re unfortunate enough, you’ll fall in love with a loser like Daishou.

“You didn’t even know they’d be looking for him,” Kuroo sighs sympathetically, looking at the childishly bulging vertebrae on her bowed neck. “And that’s why you haven’t skipped town.”

“I didn’t think...” Mika mumbles. She raises her head, but her gaze desperately races around the kitchen. “I didn’t realize that he...went and set... even the Cartel...even Ushijima after him!” 

“Even them?” Kuroo latches on immediately, like that’s what he was waiting for. But Mika, realizing she’d spilled too much, instantly squeezes her lips shut and turns away.

“That jerk was working for someone else?” Yaku darkens. “Well, shit.”

Yaku is an acknowledged master of concise descriptions, and Kuroo can’t even argue with his talent. Kuroo’s hoping against all hope that the game has not been joined by someone they can’t handle, but with Daishou’s selective luck they’ll have to expect the worst.

“He’s deep in it, huh?” Kuroo tsks. Not that he’s invested in that dumbass’s dramatic turns of fate or anything. “Should’ve guessed.”

That snake had always been careful and didn’t get himself into trouble; a mother’s pride and joy, if mothers were proud of the criminal acts their beautiful offspring committed and if this specific mother weren’t found floating face down in the Ciliwung a decade prior. Daishou comes out of the water dry ninety nine times out of a hundred, but the hundredth time you have to pull him out by his hair.

“Should’ve guessed,” Kuroo repeats in a whisper, pulling a wobbly-legged stool out from under the table and taking a seat. He’s now eye level with Mika, and that’s when Kuroo puts his gun on the table and leans forward to look up at her.

“If you don’t tell us everything,” he says absolutely seriously, “we will leave you here completely alone. And then the Cartel will come after you, and you know they’ll leave no stone unturned trying to find Suguru. Find and kill him. Is that what you want? Tolet it all end like that?”

Obviously, he’s lying. But if she doesn’t start talking, they’ll have to drag her into the car and take her to Nekomata, because as long as she’s the only lead to the printing plates, no one’s gonna let her breathe freely. And Kuroo can sense that Yaku’s already losing his patience.

He pushes. “You know me, Mika. I can help.”

At these words Yaku raises his eyebrows so high they almost disappear behind his hairline. Kuroo barely restrains himself from abandoning his role as a pacifier and showing Yaku his middle finger.

Especially since Mika finally breaks: huge tears fall off her lashes and slide down her cheeks. She grabs at Kuroo hysterically, and then pulls her arms back and starts wiping her eyes with shaking palms. Then, with effort, swallows down her hysteria and straightens out again. And nods, calmer now.

“I’ll talk.”

Kuroo nods encouragingly in response.

“The problems started three months ago?”

“What kind?” Yaku interrupts harshly.

Kuroo makes a scary face at him, and then turns back to Mika, soft again. “Go on.”

“We started having financial problems. Suguru was in debt to someone, I don’t know who, he said he’d figure it out himself.”

Yaku snorts humorlessly. He sure did figure it out. Kuroo personally is curious how Daishou ended up stealing from right under the Sunrise Cartel’s nose and getting half of Jakarta after him. The last part Kuroo understands very well.

“And...” by Mika’s tone, it seems like she’s about to deliver the fatal blow. “He...Suguru started working for the Triad.”

There’s that fatal blow. Kuroo, of course, hasn’t been in Jakarta in a while, but looking at Yaku, who’s eloquently massaging his temples, nothing new in the hierarchy of this African savannah has transpired. Meaning, the biggest lions in the pride are still old man Washijou, the guys with Allah at the head, and the Triad.

And the only thing worse than working for the Chinese gang is getting in their way.

“He lost his marbles.” Kuroo nods to himself. “I always said that’s how it would end.”

“Yeah, your guy’s a bit, you know,” Yaku agrees. “But how did he get in?”

Mika opens her mouth, but Kuroo beats her to it, waving a hand. “He’s half Burmese, his mom’s from Myanmar. I’m more interested in this question: what happened after that? They forced him into joining the treasure hunt so they wouldn’t stick out themselves?” He’s more thinking out loud than asking.

Both Yaku and Kuroo understand that yet another challenger for Ukai’s stereoplates lowers the odds for everyone else, but since this challenger is the Triad, the only one capable of taking them on is the Cartel. The bishop’s going to be thrilled.

“No, not that.” Mika shakes her head. “It didn’t start like that. That was his...initiative.”

“Psychopath,” Kuroo gently summarizes. “And why the hell?”

“Like you don’t know how he is.” She presses a hand to her forehead, tiredly. “He’s always wanted to live better, live richer, escape from here and go to somewhere in Europe— he was constantly talking about that. And three days ago this dude shows up” — she frowns, trying to remember his name — “Terashima and says, he’s got some fucking incredible product on his hands. I didn’t know what it was then, hadn’t even heard that this fucking chase was going on, and Suguru... God, his eyes lit up. He was sitting right here, and I saw he came up with his plan in literal seconds. Trick this Terashima, get in touch with a guy from the Citadel... He was planning on playing both sides, but wasn’t planning on bringing the product, there was a huge sum on the line.” “A huge sum” isn’t quite the right term for thirteen million euros. “Yesterday morning,” she pauses, trying to control her emotions. “Yesterday morning we were supposed to get on a plane to Madrid. We’d bought the tickets already, he told me to pack and wait for his phone call.”

“He didn’t call?”

“He called.” She sighs deeply. “He was agitated and worrying. Said some problems came up with uh, the first guy, Terashima. Said he had problems, and he was on his way home. I waited, waited a few hours, but he still hadn’t showed up.”

“So he successfully played both Oikawa and Terushima to steal the sacred tablets for his Chinese bosses, but then why did he need a deal with the Japanese? Did something go wrong?” Kuroo asks, not quite understanding.

Mika bites her lip, folds her hands on the tabletop, stares at her hands, shoots Yaku a glare, looks at Kuroo, swallows loudly, and finally says, “Not quite.”

***

Not quite for the Chinese bosses, not quite stolen, not quite successfully.

“Holy shi-i-i-i-i-t!” Bokuto whistles, either impressed or astounded, and almost falls off his chair when he leans back too hard.

Kuroo completely agrees. This is a clear “holy shit,” with a side of “well, damn” and “God, what a dumbass.”

Daishou was never planning to get the plates for the Triad— he planned to without their knowledge move this fucking holy Grail to the Japanese gang himself, become an instant millionaire and fuck off to as far away of a country as he could manage to escape the greedy clutches of his bosses. But, naturally, he miscalculated: the Chinese, according to Mika, sniffed out his little plan. And so, he’s probably already lying around in some back alley with a tightly-tied bag on his head.

Kuroo’s actually mad at him for how self-confidently and clumsily he kicked the bucket. The chances of Daishou being left alive after he, trying to give himself a bonus, stole the tablets from the Cartel and even got the money for it, are... Nonexistent.

“Goddamn,” Kuroo mutters, knocking back his beer.

The emergency meeting about their newly-acquired information is held right under the altar: Jesus and the statue of the Virgin Mary gaze solemnly at Yaku puffing on a cigarette, Kai, absentmindedly leaning against the pulpit, Kuroo, drinking a Budweiser, Bokuto rocking back and forth on a rickety chair, Shirofuku slurping noodles from a Chinese restaurant— and at Nekomata, smiling wider and wider with the ever-present Naoi at his back. The bishop’s smile, gentle and serpentine, isa sure sign that their position is the worst it could be.

“The situation in the city hasn’t changed?” Kuroo asks, leaning back on the bench.

Kai shakes his head. “Nope, in the last three years (“Which you spent running from the wrath of God,” Yaku grumbles under his breath) everything’s stayed the same.”

“No one’s replaced anyone else, started any armed mutinies, no rebellions of the criminal working class?” Kuroo tsks. “Kinda boring over here, y’all. No spark.”

Being in essence a giant criminal anthill, Jakarta is known as a safe haven for all calibers of outlaws far beyond Indonesia’s borders: Arabs, Chinese, Japanese, Turks, Bengalis, Indians— every self-respecting Asian bandit’s got himself a visa here. Pablo Escobar’s high school for highwaymen.

And at the top of this school are the kids with the most groupies, who sit at the coolest table in the cafeteria, who drive around in the coolest cars and hook up with the hottest girls. That is, they own the most expensive real estate, have the most foot soldiers and control the biggest businesses this side of the Indian Ocean. And instead of shoving losers’ heads in toilets, they just blow those heads off.

The three pillars of Jakarta.

“So, Sunrise Cartel, Triad, and Al Shamed,” Kuroo lists off the candidates, counting on his fingers. “Anyone else planning to join our party? Tai Huen Chai? Battalion D? Any other criminal giants? We haven’t invited everyone yet, have we?”

“Don’t be facetious.” Nekomata grimaces, walking around the table and sitting down at an expensive oak chair with a high back, standing behind the pulpit. “Especially since Al Shamed’s not in this. They clearly showed they think the ideal stereoplates are a children’s fairytale. And they have a lot more problems with the gambling business right now.”

“Well, the Arabs would’ve been the biggest problem,” Bokuto says thoughtlessly, “so everything else is a piece of cake.”

Yaku rolls his eyes.

“What about Jemaah Islamiyah?” Kuroo asks seriously.

Nekomata frowns even more. “If someone sells the plates to terrorists, we’ll find out. But if the Chinese have them, I’m sure that won’t happen. You know how Han and Washijou’s people feel about sponsored explosions in their city.”

“The Chinese do have them,” Naoi says. “That’s a hundred percent possibility with a tiny margin of error. And if we account for the fact that we took the girl out of town, and assume the Cartel doesn’t have moles at the top of the Triad, we’re ahead.”

“The Cartel will find out anyway.” Kai shakes his head. “It won’t take them too long.”

“We still have the advantage.”

“To be honest, I still don’t like this whole situation.”

“You don’t like anything,” Yaku snaps, exhaling smoke.

“Because I didn’t sign up to fight with the Chinese gang. Like this city doesn’t already have plenty of people who want to kill me!”

“Scared?” Shirofuku snorts from laughter.

“Less than twenty four hours ago I hijacked a plane,” Kuroo reminds her, offended.

Bokuto adds, “With only a single lighter!”

“You hear that?”

“It’ll go down in history, dude,” Bokuto promises, and Kuroo high-fives him.

“This city already knows its hero and really wants to get rid of him, if you’ve managed to forget that,” Yaku can’t resist adding, and aims his cigarette somewhere southwards. “What’re we going to do with this one?”

Kuroo slowly rises from the bench, holding his hands in his pockets, and leisurely walks right up to the altar.

“You know exactly what,” he sighs, looking up and examining Jesus from the bottom up. And then looks over his shoulder and smirks. “We’re coming up with a wickedly clever plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yaku: who wants to talk about daishou  
> kuroo: I do  
> yaku: I know, kuroo  
> kuroo: I hate him  
> yaku, reaching for his gun: I know, kuroo
> 
> I'd like to thank my mother, my internet friends, my irl best friend, Russian hq fans on twitter, and the original poster, all of whom helped me translate this chapter in some way.
> 
> OP literally changed part of the original fic bc I got stuck on a mention of a leather upholstered door which is shorthand for cheap apartment in the former soviet union but not a thing literally anywhere else in the world. Thank You Very Much


	3. Chapter 3

“Do we even have anyone who speaks Chinese?” Kuroo looks around, casually swinging his leg back and forth and tossing back M&Ms confiscated from Lev. “What, nobody?”

“First of all, ‘you,’ not ‘we,’” Yaku corrects him meaningfully, straightening the Roman collar under his chin. “Second of all, isn’t the girl from your crew Chinese? She looks it.”

“And aren’t you, like, twelve?” Shirofuku asks calmly from behind Yaku’s back, clicking the safety on her cannon. “You look it.”

“Hey, hey, guys, let’s take a break.” Normally Kuroo would’ve placed a bet and sat down with Bokuto in a safe corner nearby to watch the show, but Nekomata clearly explained that his “wickedly clever plan” should’ve been conceived yesterday, before the Cartel showed up with Ushijima’s massive shoulders at the front. “Since none of you are Chinese, this won’t help matters. Bo” — Bokuto stops sorting the M&Ms by color and looks up at him — “help me out here!”

“You want me to find a Chinese guy?”

“At least.”

“And at most,” Yaku jumps in, “get your fucking ex out of here, and tell her to point her gun away from my head!”

Kuroo raises his head towards Jesus and solemnly intones, “Lord, if you exist: I believe you’re an okay dude. Please, let somebody shoot Yaku already. And send me a damned Chinese guy.”

He’s ready to duck the bullet a certain Catholic priest filled with unholy rage is aiming at his head when a cheerful voice in the doorway to the sacristy announces, “Excuse me, you’re looking for a Chinese guy? I’m a quarter, but my Cantonese isn’t bad.”

The bullet misses. In the entrance stands a ridiculously tall, energetic-looking kid.

So there is a God in this world after all!

_ The Chinese kelurahan, or quarter, is called Glodok— a tangled clump of streets with blue awnings and red lanterns, hissing with steam. Glodok is: markets there’s not enough room for outside, filling the first floors of buildings with countless little stalls; it’s tiny eateries where you’re never sure what exactly’s floating in your plate; it’s worn red dragons walking right between the wooden rows; it’s bags of spices, it’s deep crate-lined alleys leading you in. _

_ “Excuse me,” Inuoka begins in Chinese. _

_ An elderly woman in a floral shirt looks up from soaking dirty ginger roots in a huge steel pan. Inuoka’s kicked in the back, but he doesn’t even turn around. He wipes his sweaty palms and says, swallowing down his worry under the discriminating eye of the woman, “I’m looking for Wong’s girlfriend.” _

_ Like the instructions said, she answers in a creaky voice, “He still hasn’t found her?” _

_ From that the clump of nerves weakens; now Inuoka’s stressed as fuck instead of stressed to death. “Not yet, I’ve only seen her in a photo.” _

_ She seems skeptical, and suspiciously nods at the wide doorway behind the counter, blocked off with a dirty red curtain. “Come in.” _

“The Chinese know everyone who doesn’t have better things to do in this city’s after their sacred tablets, and they know that at any moment every one of their guys is being watched by at least ten greedy pairs of eyes.” Kuroo strolls around the table with wide steps, stopping periodically to examine the map unrolled on the table. It’s pinned in place by Shirofuku’s cannon and an empty bottle of Asahi. “Starting production here is suicide, so they’re going to be shipping them out of the country. No other options.”

“So what?” Shirofuku arches a brow. “Why should we care? We’ll send your shaggy-haired guy in and find out everything. We can draw conclusions later.”

“Because this gives us an excellent chance, sweetie,” Kuroo purrs, smoothing out the wrinkled map with his fingertips. “Everything could go easier than expected.”

“When you say shit like that, it usually goes worse.”

Ignoring Yaku, Kuroo continues. “If they try to ship the plates out, the sacred tablets will have a decent guard. They won’t risk trying to smuggle them out of the city with just one person. And we all know how much the Chinese hate...” He makes a few wide hand gestures, so that his dear listeners in the pews could come to the obvious conclusion.

The dear listeners stare at him, like he’s an idiot. Everyone except Bokuto, whose entire demeanor shows that an interactive game with prizes is the best way to liven up the room.

Kuroo, sighing, places his hands on his hips. “What the hell? Who hasn’t been here in three years? We all know how much the Chinese hate sacrificing their own! The fuck were y’all doing while I was gone?”

“Living peacefully.” Yaku cringes. “We get the point. The Triad won’t use their ranks for cannon fodder. That’ll be people from outside. So we could very conveniently turn up.”

“But why would they let some rando handle a sack worth thirteen mill?” Bokuto scratches the back of his neck. “Nah, guys, I’m not sure this’ll play.”

_ “And who are you?” The stormy Chinese man with a bald head gleaming from sweat is taller than Lev. _

_ Inuoka swallows, presses the clay cup to his lips, like every time he thinks they’re watching him and he needs to pretend to be busy. The smell of alcohol and herbs hits his nose. _

_ “I haven’t seen you here before.” _

_ Hesitating is death, so Inuoka answers, trying not to shake like a leaf. “You couldn’t have.” Forgetting, he even takes a sip from the cup and almost, almost doesn’t wince. “I just got in from Xiang’an a week ago. My name is Liu Ci.” _

“Remember. This is Siu Han.” Kuroo shoves a photo under the kid’s nose. The kid’s named Inuoka Sou, and he doesn’t have any outstanding qualities besides his unshakeable optimism and knowledge of Chinese. Kuroo wants to believe he’s full of surprises. “One of the Triad’s lowest ranked recruiters. If one of their higher-ups is looking for people to run a suicide mission, there’s an 80% chance it’ll be him.”

“When did you become a mathematician?” Shirofuku asks, probably out of spite because even if Kuroo had become a mathematician there’s no way she’d know about it.

“I was estimating.” Kuroo snaps his fingers instead of getting offended. “It might even be a full 90%.”

_ Siu Han turns out to be thin and pale, especially compared to other Jakartans. “Look for the dead fish stare,” Kuroo says. Yaku suggests looking for the carp tattoo on the guy’s shoulder, which is more helpful. The carp is very well done. Inuoka would say it looks professional, although he doesn’t know anything about tattoos. The colors and waves are very pretty. Anyway, now’s not the time to think about it. _

_ Mostly because the gun in the hands of the guy across from him is about to blow his brains out. _

_ “You tell me where the Zi brothers are, or I’ll shoot you through the head!” Konoha gives him an ultimatum. _

“Your mission is to find him, but not give away that you’re specifically trying to join them. You’re strong and independent. He’s supposed to approach you first.”

“How strong and independent am I?” Inuoka doesn’t understand. “I mean, how do I make him come to me?”

Kuroo smiles widely. “You must...”

“Kuroo, you bastard, leave the kid alone.” Yaku rubs the bridge of his nose, long-suffering. On his face is the distress of a kindergarten teacher.

“He’s not a kid! When I was his age—”

“We all know what you were doing at his age,” Yaku interrupts, then enunciates carefully, like each syllable is hammering a nail into Kuroo’s head and improving the disaster he calls a hairstyle. “And look where that got you.”

Kuroo, of course, is offended, and Bokuto clutches his chest. They look at each other and gesticulate. Inuoka shuffles to the side, sensing trouble, but Kuroo digs his claws into the kid’s elbow and drags him back.

“And so, young padawan, learn the rule of Fergie, you must.”

“What?”

“The rule of Fergie,” Kuroo repeats, like it’s self-evident. He gazes at the boy sympathetically. Now he knows what they’ve been doing the last three years in Jakarta: deterioriating.

“What’s this rule?” Inuoka asks, cautiously curious, ignoring Yaku’s “don’t listen to him.”

Kuroo victoriously raises a finger in the air and slowly announces, “Fergalicious. Definition: Make. The Boys. Go loco.”

_ “Tell me where the Zi brothers are or I shoot you through the head!” Konoha, Bokuto’s helper, wearing a bandanna, a surgical mask, and a panicked expression in his eyes, prods Inuoka in the chin with his weapon. _

“Just imagine it’s a performance,” Kuroo says, sending them out into the world. Konoha’s giving him an unfriendly look.

“Just don’t freeze for too long, or it’ll stop being a performance and turn into a, what’s it called.” Bokuto snaps his fingers.

Problem? Huge problem? Gigantic problem?

“An installation,” Kuroo finishes with a nod.

_ Siu Han looks up from his mahjong game at a distant table, someone’s whispering, and Inuoka boldly and carelessly smirks. “The same place you’ll end up if you don’t stop yelling in public.” _

_ “You...” _

_ First order of business: press the gun aimed at him to the table in one harsh movement. At the same time, dump the glass of baijiu in Konoha’s face. _

_ After that it gets easier: grab the gun, twist his arm, grab his neck from behind, slam his chin against the back of the chair, pull his collar and drag him to the entrance. Pause there, move the curtain away with one hand, and then turn back and casually say, “I apologize for the trouble.” _

_ He returns to his table by the wall five minutes later, rubbing his knuckles, and sticks his face in the cup. And when he raises his head to look at the person who decided to block his light, he sees Siu Han.  _

_ And Siu Han asks, “Can I sit?” _

“They gather their crew out of very-slightly-good kids. It’s like television: the most important thing is to be in the right place at the right time.” Kuroo, under the disappointed gaze of the Heavenly Father, climbs on to the pulpit.

If everything burns out, Kuroo will light a candle.

“This plan’s half-assed in every direction,” Yaku snorts, shattering all of Kuroo’s hopes and dreams in one motion.

“Do you have any better ideas?” Kuroo crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s what I —”

“Actually yeah,” Yaku interrupts.

“ — That’s what I thought,” Kuroo continues. “If you don’t have any ideas please be quiet.”

“I have ide—”

“All you can do is interrupt.” To be perfectly honest Kuroo would’ve happily listened if someone else (someone less annoying and prone to stepping on Kuroo’s toes) was offering. He is willing to listen to Yaku, but only after he finishes laying out his own vision for the future. Although in the end Kuroo’s plan is going to end up being better, because Kuroo has never had a bad plan in his life and never will.

“So, Inuoka Whoever-the-fuck, after Siu Han decides he likes you, he’ll take you to the enforcer. Don’t worry, it’s not gonna hurt.”

_ The building is hidden in the depths of the Chinese quarter. To get there, you have to go down to the basement in one alley; climb out of it in another; walk through a market; an awning, where old Chinese men sleep in huge cloth hammocks; through a side door in a public bath— and only then you’ll get to a dead end with an unassuming wooden door in the corner. _

_ “Go,” Siu Han tells him, and through his mirrored sunglasses it’s impossible to see where he’s looking. Inuoka’s known the man for three days now and has yet to see his eyes. _

_ He nods, straightens his shoulders, and pulls the handle. _

_ And finds himself in the dark. _

“You won’t be able to see shit. Then they’ll turn on a lamp, you’ll see a table and probably two chairs. They’ll suggest you sit in one of them. And in the other one there’ll be a dude who’ll make you shit yourself from fear. Huge, with totally crazy eyes.” Kuroo shudders dramatically. “Basically, congrats, you’ve been granted the rare and valuable opportunity to meet Zi Fan directly.”

_ Zi Fan has bulging eyes, a huge fat scar from his brow to his chin, and Inuoka honestly doesn’t know which laws of physics allow this man to fit in a chair. A person that size should be generating his own gravitational field and pulling smaller people into his orbit. _

_ “Good afternoon,” Inuoka greets him, swallowing nervously and cautiously sits down on the edge of the empty chair. _

“Zi Fan is a very serious dude,” Kuroo says, sitting down on the table and swinging his legs back and forth. Yaku sits next to him, everyone else bunches up in the first row of pews. Bokuto’s spinning an apple in his hand, occasionally taking bites out of it. Shirofuku’s looking over her shoulder at Lev playing on his phone. Kai’s standing, leaning against the wall. Inuoka is sitting directly in front of Kuroo in a tall, high-backed chair between the pews. “You have to answer him very seriously. Imagine that you accidentally made a joke about Yaku’s height, and now you have to deal with the consequences.”

“So like Lev?” Inuoka worries.

Lev looks up, confused. “I never joke about Yaku-san’s height! I’m always completely serious!”

“That’s even worse.” Kuroo grins. “Yaku, put the cannon away, I like this kid. So, when Zi Fan asks you...”

_ “The Triad must be your priority. We definitely won’t regret picking you up?” Zi Fan asks, pressing his powerful elbows into the table. Inuoka can hardly look away from them. He swallows, and trying to look confident, answers: _

“...You must answer...”

_ “You — definitely, me — we’ll see. You’ll want me to stay.” _

Yaku’s looking at him like he’s gone completely insane. “What, seriously? Just like that?”

Inuoka is losing faith in his own abilities right in front of their eyes, in front of God and the public.

Kuroo nods. “Yeah. Just like that. Believe me. Zi Fan will like it.”

_ “Good.” Zi Fan nods, satisfied, and his powerful face seems to soften a little. “Very good!” _

“...And then he’ll want to shoot you.”

"What?" asks Inuoka, blinking a few times.

"What?" Bokuto chokes on his apple.

"What?" Yaku raises his voice threateningly.

"No originality," Kuroo laments, shaking his head.

_ The barrel of the gun presses into Inuoka’s forehead. _

“So like, you have to—”

“No, fucking wait!” Yaku explodes, nearly falling off the table from worry. “What do you mean by ‘will want to shoot you’?! Kuroo! You’re the one who needs to be fucking shot!”

“An ad hominem attack is the biggest fallacy an argument could have!”

Yaku is evidently preparing to show him which argument has the most weight in this house of God, because he’s reaching for his gun again, but then from the back room Naoi’s head pops out and he shouts “Morisuke! The bishop wants you. Kids, everything okay out here?”

“You’re talking to them like they’re kindergarteners.” Shirofuku snorts. 

Kuroo deeply doesn’t understand what the difference is, but obediently waits until Yaku slides off the table and follows Naoi out. Then says, “Okay, so, Inuoka, while no one’s interrupting us, I repeat: You must...”

_ “This is illogical,” Inuoka drawls, casually throwing an arm around the back of his chair and boldly looking up at Zi Fan. “If these are your methods for recruiting new members, I’ll pass.” _

_ “You’re joking around with me, boy?” Zi Fan roars. _

_ Inuoka pretends that the gun still pointing at his head and promising a quick death isn’t scaring the crap out of him. And answers, “I have nothing to hide.” He shrugs. “But I don’t want to die. Put the gun away.” _

“That level of audacity’s more your brand, Kuroo,” Shirofuku drawls thoughtfully. “Your style.”

Kuroo cackles cheerfully, almost choking from his own coolness. “So I have a style?”

“Your style is ‘brainless blockhead with bad taste.’ So I don’t think it’ll fly with this boy. What if your Chinese guy doesn’t buy it?”

_ In the silence of the dark room Inuoka thinks the whole quarter can hear how hysterically his heart is beating. He stares the gun down, pretending to be unfazed by it, but really imagining how any second now a bullet can fly out of there and end his young, promising life. He doesn’t want to die! _

_ A drop of sweat slides down his back. _

_ Zi Fan says nothing. _

“He’ll buy it.” Kuroo waves her off carelessly. “Zi Fan loves rascals.” His tastes might have changed in three years, but Kuroo decides not to voice this concern. He holds a finger up and finishes, “Basically, do what I tell you, and everything will be okay, kiddo.”

_ The gun lowers at a glacial pace, like at any second it’ll jump back up. But instead of shooting him, Zi Fan says, “I’ll tell Siu Han we can work with you.” _

“If we pass the border of Zi Fan, we’ll be all-powerful!” Kuroo declares optimistically and with a loud slosh takes a drink from his plastic soda cup. Then continues. “Because half the applicants fail this stage of the interview. And some of them aren’t ever found again, unfortunately.”

Inuoka goes even paler, but holds on. Yaku, reappearing at the edge of Kuroo’s range of hearing, mumbles something about degenerative disorders. Bokuto balances a pen between his upper lip and his nose.

“Back on topic,” Shirofuku yawns.

“Right, back to you, buddy.” Kuroo slaps Inuoka on the back. “Because when we pass the first stage of their review, there’s still one more to go — if they haven’t changed the rules. The Chinese gang is a bunch of suspicious bastards and will let you in on the job only if you don’t betray them. Tell me, my guy, do you know how to drive?”

_ “Do you know how to drive?” Siu Han asks, taking off his sunglasses. They’re sitting in a small loud Chinese eatery, full of people and steam crawling out of the kitchen. “Do you have a license?” _

_ Inuoka nods. _

Inuoka shakes his head. 

“No,” he adds, almost fearfully.

“No?” Kuroo demands indignantly, and then turns to Yaku. “Are you kidding me? The fuck were you even teaching him here?!”

_ “This product” — Siu Han carefully moves some kind of bag towards the legs of Inuoka’s chair — “must be delivered to sir Ro Ming today, before noon.” He squints, like he knows everything about Inuoka, starting with the fact that his father is actually Japanese and ending with the fact that this was all Kuroo’s stupid plan. But instead of calling his bluff, Siu Han just continues. “The keys are in the bag. The car is a red Mitsubishi behind the corner on the right side of the street. You’re transporting a huge sum. Can you handle it?” _

_ “Of course,” Inuoka answers confidently. _

“You’re sure it’ll involve driving?” Kai asks.

Kuroo nods. “I’m positive. The Chinese guys love tradition, it’s hard to get them to break a habit. Suguru’s half Chinese—” He cuts himself off, winces, and adds, “Was, and still had the horrible habit of... Ah, never mind.” 

Yaku’s expression almost softens, but then becomes judgemental again immediately when Kuroo scratches his head and suggests, “What if we just explain everything to him as we go through an earpiece?”

Yaku instantly snaps, “Don’t even think about it. He’ll kill himself.”

“Or worse, fail the test,” Kuroo sighs, leaning back. “Also fair. Oh!” He jumps up again. “Let’s have Boku—”

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’? I didn’t even finish!”

“Any suggestions containing words that start with ‘Boku’ are a hard no.”

_ Inuoka steps outside on weak legs. _

“Fine!” Yaku explodes, after a lot of persuasion. “Fine, I get it, we have no choice, stop repeating yourselves! Do what you want!”

_ Walking to the car, Inuoka remembers the most important thing. He remembers that using the pedals everything went a lot faster. "Press this shit when you gotta move," says Bokuto, poking it with a finger, "and press this when there's a clusterfuck ahead of you." _

_ Inuoka doesn't suspect that there's always a clusterfuck ahead of him. _

“If something goes wrong,” Yaku firmly insists, “we have to back up Sou. You said so yourself, they’ll probably set up some kind of trap on the way to check his resourcefulness, so what the hell?”

Kuroo wants to say something about nesting hens with unrealized maternal instincts, but he likes his limbs attached to his body. Instead he says, “When I was twenty years old and a choir boy, the old man forced me to get behind the wheel of a dump truck when we were running from that northwestern gang, and I’m still alive!”

“And what a pity that was.” Shirofuku throws her head back, demonstrating that instead of sweating in this church, she’d much rather be... What does she usually do? Eat? “But I still think that with some backup, this plan’s alright.”

“Me too,” Kai adds peaceably.

“Me too,” Inuoka ventures softly.

_ “If something goes wrong” happens unsurprisingly fast. Inuoka doesn’t even have time to think. Bullets drum against the side of the car, and he has to roll out of it, grabbing the bag with him. A tall black man stands over him. Inuoka’s brain shoves a lot of unhelpful information at him: for instance, the tattoos reveal him to be from a small band of Nigerians in Bekasi. Inuoka can see three more men across the street and understands: it’s all over. _

_ But the men fall one after another, like dominos.  _

_ Inuoka spends a few seconds staring at the body on the ground in front of them and gets up from the sidewalk. _

_ “You good?” asks an uncertain feminine voice in his wireless earpiece. _

_ He exhales. “Yeah. Yes, thank you.” He coughs, embarrassed. “Thanks, Suzumeda.” _

“Because my guys are the best, hey-hey-hey!” Bokuto laughs loudly.

“...And when they start hinting that they’ll pay well for participating in an activity of dubious intents, you volunteer!” Kuroo salutes with his empty cup and throws it in the trash.

_ “Of course,” Inuoka says, “Thank you for trusting me, gege! I accept.” _

“And here is where the difficulties start.”

“The difficulties started when you were born,” Yaku comments, but lazily and without his usual ire. He covers his yawn with one hand. “And for us they never stopped. So, what’s the problem with your genius plan?”

Kuroo decides to ignore the jokes about his birth. It’s starting to lighten outside, and he definitely wants to sleep more than trade insults with Yaku like a ping-pong match.

“They...” he tries to smother his yawn, but it doesn’t happen. Everyone starts yawning in turn, until Bokuto’s jaw pops so loudly everyone else jumps. “They’ll be pretty secretive about their plans. That sucks. Probably they’ll announce what they need done the day before, if we’re lucky. And if we’re not, ten minutes before. So what we need is for Inuoka to reveal his hidden spy skills and find out exactly what they’re going to do with our sacred tablets...” Kuroo pauses, but Yaku’s too tired to correct him. “So we can come up with our counter-plan.”

“Any ideas?” Shirofuku asks sleepily.

Kuroo nods. “Yes,” he drags himself up to a sitting position by sheer willpower. “But first, coffee.”

Everyone agrees. They send Lev to the nearest supermarket.

“Look for the talker,” Kuroo says. “Every gang’s got a talker, it’s a metaphysical law of the thug life.”

“Who’s the talker in our gang? You?”

“First of all, we’re not a gang, we’re a Catholic society, feel the difference,” Kuroo the atheist corrects him. “Second, it’s not me, it’s...” he looks around. “Lev!”

“So far you’re talking a lot more than Lev,” Shirofuku points out. Maybe she’s secretly fallen for him, and this is her way of expressing her feelings? Maybe Kuroo needs to let her down gently? “I’d be a lot happier listening to him than you.”

Kuroo reconsiders the “gently.” 

“I don’t like you,” he declares.

Shirofuku just laughs.

Convinced he’d successfully stomped all over her shattered heart, Kuroo continues, satisfied. “So, the talker. Here’s how you’ll find him...”

_ To find Han Ciu, he doesn’t have to try very hard. He’s tall, thin, and definitely reminds Inuoka of Lev: moves a lot, talks a lot. He knows everybody, talks to everybody, knows something about everyone, doesn’t watch his words but is still in Siu Han’s good books. _

“Befriend him.”

_ Inuoka accomplishes that in two days. _

“But how do I make him tell me...Well,” he hesitates, “specifically about their plans for the stereoplates? If it turns out he knows something?”

Everyone weighs in.

“Threaten him?”

“Shoot him in the knees?”

“Bribe him?”

Dilettantes, all of them. Kuroo holds a pause to make himself seem more dignified, and then simply says, “Get him drunk.”

_ The hole-in-the-wall eatery the Triad people call “theirs” is in the dead center of the Chinese quarter. Locals jokingly call it the Heart. When Siu Han calls the first and second brigade of works to drink there, he also invited Inuoka. Turning him down would be rude: you don’t say no to gege. _

"Why do all your plans end in drinking?" Yaku asks suspiciously.

"Because it's one of the few things connecting everyone in this city."

“Oh, you mean like the desire to kill you?"

_ Inside the eatery it’s loud and stuffy. Voices overlap one and other, layering various Chinese dialects and languages over each other. The ones raised in Jakarta sound especially rough somehow. _

_ “I grew up in Jakarta too,” Han Ciu says, throwing back a tiny shot of huangjiu (this one a real kind of aged Shaoxing wine which should really be sipped, not shotgunned). _

_ Inuoka thoughtfully pours him some more. _

“Just roll up quietly, top up his cup when he’s not looking. Let him drink until his tongue loosens. Then take him outside for a smoke and say:

_ “I really need some money, brother,” Inuoka says sadly, exhaling a stream of white smoke into the warm night air. _

_ The voices and noise still reach the nook they’re chatting in, but Han Ciu decided to walk a little further away. And would’ve, if he wasn’t walking like a sailor on deck in a hurricane. _

_ “And why...hic...What about...the work...gege’s about to assign?” Han Ciu grabs Inuoka’s outstretched hand, and it takes their combined efforts and a good five minutes to get him up off the ground. _

“Make shit up,” Kuroo is very inspired by the idea that he has to lie to someone again, “Say you’re having problems with...with your mother! She’s very sick, she’s slowly dying in poor and unsanitary conditions...back home in Kowloon...”

“Kowloon got demolished in the nineties, you were like ten.”

“Some other place in Hong Kong where you can die in poor and unsanitary conditions.” Kuroo rolls his eyes. “Does that work, Yaku? Anyway, Inuoka — make something up. Apply pressure to his tiny little drunk brain! Press hard.”

_ “For my mother.” Inuoka goes all in, because mentioning his mother made Han Ciu tear up twice already. “I have to know what kind of work I’ll have to do. She’s always wanted me to grow up an honest man...Well, you understand... How much will it pay?” _

_ “Well, basically,” Han Ciu nervously and drunkenly licks his lips, shakes off the ash and leans closer, indicating for Inuoka to do the same. “They’re saying.” He forgets what he wanted to say, and his eyes are barely focused. “We’re moving some kind of shit on the. Twenny Ninth. Yeah, the Twe-enty ni-i-inth. We drive out in the mor— hic! — ning. They’re paying so much bcos it’s not one of those, what’s th’ word, safe. There’ll be one car, one of us drives, wi’ a cannon, and one of the higher-ups with the god. I, I ov’rh’rd,” Han Ciu confesses, almost sobbing, “how ge..ge was talking with Big Boss. Bebe said, we’re moving the product from those...hangars in Depok, to the airport...you know th’ one, Ska— Suko — you get it.” He sniffles. “Lying to gege is wrong, and eavesdropping is wrong, but I trust you, Liu Ci, don’t tell anyone, y’hear?” _

“And on the twenty ninth we’re stealing the sacred tablets! Voila, we’re amazing!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inuoka is such a good I love him  
> so the section with the fergie joke was originally an extremely clever play on words that I could not possibly make work in english. kuroo's rule was originally the rule of "three Os" which made a 3-word alliterative sentence that translates to "they must be fucking astounded." I decided to ditch the wordplay aspect and just go for humor and meaning. my friend said it was funny so I hope it works  
> also special shoutout to my irl friend jamie for checking my romanization of the chinese names ur the real mvp


	4. Chapter 4

On the morning of the twenty ninth, walking out of the hangar for a smoke, Inuoka talks into his earpiece, covering it with his palms to protect his lighter from the window. “We’ve got problems.”

“Meaning?” Kuroo asks in the headset.

There’s still half an hour to go until the signal. It’s humid and boring outside, so Kuroo has to hide the car in the shadow of the post office’s awning and waste time, throwing the seats back and disguising himself with a Chicago Bulls cap. Everyone in Jakarta knows the Church drives around on black Brabuses, so in the name of secrecy Kuroo’s given a Suzuki Jimny that has seen better days. 

“What happened?” Yaku’s voice asks briskly. “Flaws in the plan?”

“From where? It’s my plan.” Kuroo’s wounded, truly.

“That’s why I’m asking,” Yaku either tsks or spits out.

“Bro, remember how you flew out of Melbourne?” Bokuto brazenly resurrects a dead horse, as though he’s about to force Kuroo to recount how they met at a family dinner.

“Bokuto, fuck off.” Kuroo wipes some sweat off his forehead.

The phrase “we’ve got problems” isn’t the best way to start a conversation, especially if there’s a potentially fatal mission on the line, but Inuoka comes back online before Kuroo has time to bite all the nails off his second hand.

“There isn’t just one car,” says Inuoka. “There’s four. And in each car there’s a massive, absolutely identical suitcase.”

God, why does everything always have to go to shit?

Inuoka says a lot more things, cutting himself off so he’s not found out. For example, he says in every car there’s a whole team to save the world: one trusted Triad man, two guards and an armed driver. And the drivers will be told their routes right before they drive out, and that he, Inuoka, is going to be a guard, not a driver.

“I don’t know the cars’ license plate numbers or when we’re driving out,” Inuoka whispers nervously. “I don’t even know which car I’m in. They’re not telling us anything.”

“Don’t turn off your communicator,” Kuroo says calmly. The last thing they need is an already-pissing-himself-from-fear agent to find out that everything’s falling apart and they have no idea what to do about it.

“Please, faster,” Inuoka whispers, and his voice trembles, like he suspects something.

“Shit,” says Kuroo.

“Someone’s plan messed up,” Shirofuku gleefully says into his headset.

He can’t argue with that.

“I don’t even know where to start...” Kuroo scratches the logo engraved on the side of his gun.

“Let’s start with the fact that your plan messed up?” Shirofuku doesn’t relent.

Kuroo doesn’t argue with women, but Shirofuku is not a woman, Shirofuku is a shrew, constantly trying to lower his self-esteem to the ground and kick the shit out of it. Knowing how to admit your own mistakes is a valuable quality for any leader to have, and if he acts unfazed, no bitches will win this battle.

So Kuroo says, “I retract my previous statements.” On the other side of the headset he hears them sigh guardedly in unison. “My plan could go wrong, and it just did.”

The original plan was almost laughably simple.

The Triad’s base, from which the car was going to depart — in those glory days when there was only one car, meaning less than ten minutes ago — is located in the mazelike streets of Depok, a suburb of Jakarta. As Kai and Yaku calculated, the shortest and safest route to the Soekarno-Hatta airport goes along the outer highway loop, bending around the city to the west. This allowed them some freedom of movement: Yaku, Yamamoto and Lev were supposed to drive out of Depok on two cars at the same time as the Chinese car and take parallel roads. The Chinese car shouldn’t be allowed to get to the airport, but just in case it did Kai was there to catch it on arrival. In the event that the Chinese gang get suspicious and decide to go through the city, Kuroo’s on guard in the south, at the most convenient highway for entering the capital. The biggest roles in this drama were Bokuto’s group: he and Shirofuku as the heavy artillery in charge of the interception, Konoha on the ground, and the new blondie, Suzumeda — above them all with her beautiful rifle.

Simple. And genius.

Like all overly simple and not quite ingenious enough plans, this also goes straight to hell immediately.

“This situation reminds me of something,” Kuroo mumbles, starting the car.

He gives a general summary of the bad news in a few seconds. The discussion’s been going for a full minute now, mostly consisting of Yaku’s mumbling, Kai’s soothing phrases and Bokuto’s short commentary.

“Okay, fine, they’ll be taking different routes, that’s obvious,” Yaku says in a tense voice, indicating that he’s trying to think as fast as possible. “Where?”

“Airport,” Bokuto says immediately, “and the port. Those are the only ways to get the sacred tablets out of the capital.”

“Four cars — four airports?” Kuroo suggests offhand, rolling out from under the awning and almost knocking over a mailbox with the bumper.

“But we thought Soekarno-Hatta was the only option! Juanda and Yani don’t work for safety reasons, it’d be easy to intercept there, and Adisucipto’s like seven hours away!”

And that’s reasonable, if the Chinese don’t think they’re idiots and don’t send the sacred tablets along the windswept road to Yani.

“So,” Yaku starts in a commanding tone of voice. He’s silent for a few seconds, then repeats. “So. At minimum, one of the four cars is going to Soekarno.”

Kuroo puts both hands on the steering wheel, sighs deeply, throwing his head back to stretch his neck a bit, and then says, “We have no choice, y’all. We have to act as circumstances unfold.”

“Great plan.” Shirofuku snickers.

“We have to tell Inuoka to stick to the original plan,” Yaku says quickly. “While we figure out if his conditions are the same.”

“Except he’s not driving,” Kai sighs. “That complicates everything.”

“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade!” Bokuto declares optimistically.

Yaku has his own ideas about how to live this life. “If someone gives you a lemon,” he says, bloodthirstily, “you squeeze it and throw the lemon juice in the eyes of the bastard who gave you the stupid lemon.”

“I’m worried for Lev, who’s in the same car as that dude,” Shirofuku shares her concerns. Kuroo cackles.

Kai peacefully declares, “Well, at least we’ll know what car Sou’s in.”

*** 

Naturally, that also goes to shit.

Simple plans. Genius plans.

Of course, judging by what’s happening in Inuoka’s mic, his car’s already on the way: the voices clamoring in Chinese fade into a vacuum, the noise of the city quiets. But. 

“There’s two of them, guys,” Yaku reports, his voice implying something vulgar. “There’s, fuck, two. Windows tinted to hell and back. Drove out at the exact same goddamn moment as each other.”

“One car’s moving in the direction of Tangerang, to the airport, like we planned for,” Yamamoto instantly delivers. “Another one drove out on the highway, there’s only one exit to the east or straight into the city. The third and fourth cars aren’t out yet. And these two motherfuckers are identical silver Timors. S515s.”

“I’m gonna go ahead and guess that the remaining two are also going to be silver Timors.”

Yaku lets out a groan. “And at different times, too, fantastic. Tora, stay there. I’m going to follow the one going to the airport. Kuroo, you’ve got the second one. How will we know which one Inuoka’s in?”

“Inuoka,” Bokuto cheerfully blurts out, “Inuoka, what car are you in?”

“Holy shit,” Yaku whispers.

“Good job,” Shirofuku yawns almost without sarcasm.

“Even if he does answer, it’ll be in Chinese. Were you secretly fluent in Chinese this whole time?” Yamamoto snickers.

“Hey, I know three whole words!”

“Oh, why didn’t we send you to the Triad, then?” Konoha singsongs. Kuroo’s almost forgotten that guy was listening in too.

“Maybe because all of Jakarta knows what we look like?” Shirofuku asks indifferently.

“Jakarta and fifty seven foreign countries, don’t forget,” Konoha responds.

“So Inuoka’s car is either the airport one or the city one?” Kuroo interrupts the chatter. “Okay, plan for the second remains the same. I’m waiting at the exit. What kind did you say the car was?”

Google spits out results fast — at least the internet’s working — Timor S515s look exactly like a generic, average car. Kuroo’s only hope is to look for the right vehicle on the two-lane road with his eyes, like he’s playing I Spy or something. His location is about half an hour’s drive from the Triad base. There’s quiet in his headset right up until the moment when, after seven minutes of staring at cars zooming past, Yamamoto’s voice pipes up. 

“Second two cars drove out,” he says. “One’s following the city route to Tangerang, the second... fuck, the second’s going down Pitara, inland. What do I...”

“Follow the second one,” Yaku orders briskly. “They might have some kind of plan for another airport. Give them twenty kilometers, get further away from the base, and from there just go with the flow.”

“Roger that.”

Kuroo is a little jealous of Yamamoto— at least he’s doing  _ something. _ Kuroo has to wait at the exit for at least another hour without any opportunity for a distraction, can’t even look at the dial to change radio stations. He’s trying to find a station where no one’s talking about the wedding of Gunther Perkasa, twenty nine years old, son of a politician from the National Mandate Party, but that turns out to be impossible.

Within half an hour Kuroo hates radio, hates not-Timors, hates Gunther Perkasa and his wife, hates...

Oh.

“Timor spotted,” Kuroo reports, finally moving.

The Timor is driving casually: duct-tape-covered trunk, “baby on board” sign on the rear window, low speed. Kuroo probably would’ve transported valuable freight in a car exactly like that, if without the sign in the window— too useful for narrowing down a search later.

But the Triad’s not stupid.

“Pulling into a gas station,” he mentions, slightly disappointed, pulling in after them and pausing next to a giant propane tank.

What’s going on here? Did they decide to get a can of Red Bull before the long drive? The idea that they suddenly ran out of gas is as believable as the idea that this whole adventure is going to end painlessly and the Chinese guys are going to hand them the suitcase and invite them to tea.

Kuroo’s all stiff, anticipating something bad happening. The last time Kuroo felt this anxious was right before Futakuchi started shooting at him in the middle of a Starbucks in Brisbane and blew up his latte.

A massive bald man gets out of the car. A massive, bald, European man.

Before the door closes, Kuroo has time to spot a plump Asian woman with a child inside the vehicle.

“Fuck,” says Kuroo.

“Fuck!” says Kuroo.

“Motherfucking fuck!” Kuroo yells and frightens an employee in a yellow jumpsuit, who almost drops the gas nozzle.

“Surprise me,” Yaku growls. Kuroo’s fear for his own health reminds Kuroo that surprising Yaku is a bad idea in general and even worse when the whole plan is falling apart.

Whatever, Yaku’s far away, so it won’t hurt, and Kuroo says, trying to pull his hand away from his forehead, “It’s the wrong car!”

A weighted silence from the other side of the call. Followed by:

“What?”

“Are you kidding, Tetsurou?”

“Bro!” Bokuto drawls disapprovingly, and Kuroo can practically hear him shaking his head. “Unprofessional, bro!”

Oh, are you serious?

“Did you just chase the first Timor you saw?” Yaku, shut up, just shut up. “Are you an idiot? It’s the most popular car in Indonesia?”

“Do I look like a Citadel guy who knows what cars look like?” Kuroo blurts. “Silver? Silver! Timor? Timor! Tinted windows, looked like the photos, shut up, Yaku, I’m serious!”

“Where are you going, dumbass?” Yaku remembers to ask.

Kuroo waves him off, even though no one could see him do that over the phone. “No idea. Do y’all trust me?”

“No,” is the immediate answer.

“Yeah right,” Yamamoto grumbles.

“Trust a man with hair like that?” Shirofuku’s smirk is practically audible. “Who do you take us for?”

“And remember that time you stole our money?”

“You never returned it either.”

“There’s too many people in this conversation,” Kuroo complains.

Yaku confirms, “and you messed with all of them.”

“Why’s everyone jumping on him?” Bokuto protests, loudly.

Kuroo sighs and finishes the conversation with “Keep Inuoka on track. Everything will go smoothly.”

“Smoothly, of course. Did you hear ‘Suicide Squad’ is coming out soon?” Yaku huffs. “I think that’s about us. Lev! Hands off the weapons!”

Kuroo switches off.

***

Unfortunately, their communication lines are set up so anyone can hook you back up again, so the next time Kuroo is returned to the conversation, he’s rudely slamming the door of a silver tinted-window Timor with a terrified pair of senior citizens inside. The fourth silver tinted-window Timor on his path.

“Calm down,” Yaku says, lowering his voice. “You lost them, deal with it. We’ve got to come up with something else.”

The Suzuki’s got its emergency blinkers on. One light blinking fully, the other inconsistently. The orange light during daytime is very slightly reflected in the shiny silver bumper of a Timor. Colorful automobiles rush past, and Kuroo practically leaps across the distance between his Suzuki and the stopped Timor, may it never drive well again.

“Do you hear me?” Yaku asks again with his usual intonation, implying that hearing Yaku is in Kuroo’s best interests. And this suddenly infuriates Kuroo so much that, getting back into his car, he slams the door so hard it might never open again. “You lost them.”

“I don’t care,” Kuroo hisses through gritted teeth. He starts suddenly, changes lanes, sharply cutting off some Nissan, and flips a middle finger out the window. “I do not fucking care. I will shoot every goddamned silver Timor I see, I swear to the Lord and all that is holy.”

“First Epistle of John, Kuroo,” Yaku reminds him darkly. “Anyone who hates a brother or sister is a murderer, and you know that no murderer has eternal life residing in him...”

“Who needs eternal life when you have a Colt M-4 under the seat!”

“Sounds like a cool phrase from some movie,” Bokuto shares.

“Maybe not now,” Kuroo mutters.

“Now,” Bokuto answers. “Because you’re freaking out too much. Don’t take it personally, everyone miscalculates. Find them — great. Don’t find them — what, are we supposed to collectively drown ourselves now?”

“Amen,” Kuroo sighs and looks into the gap between a blue Nissan and a metallic Peugeot. “Oh, another Timor. I’m logging off, Bo, you know everything.”

“I know everything,” Bokuto gloats with a smile in his voice. “Don’t thank me.”

If he thanks Bokuto, he’ll finally be in a good mood, and that does not need, because the car might end up being the right one. The sounds in his earpiece stop, Kuroo gets out of the Suzuki, stretches his neck and wrists, and then kicks the front door of the Timor wide open.

“ _ Nihao, _ my dudes!”

The driver dies first — Kuroo blows his brains out right on the kicked-puppy looking guy sitting next to him, and then shoots at the guy getting out from the other side of the car.

The noise in his ear comes back suddenly. “What are you up to over there?!”

Yaku, not now.

Kuroo pulls the back door open: three more there.

“Everything” — Kuroo jumps back from the place one of the backseat guys is aiming at — “is fine,” he answers in a strained voice.

“You started a shootout in the middle of a federal highway?” Yaku asks weakly. “Jesus Christ in heaven. The bishop’s going to kill me.”

Kuroo would’ve definitely been sympathetic if he’d found the time. But instead of that he pulls a man in an ironed suit out of the backseat, dodges his right hook and shoots him point blank. He has no time to waste here, if the suitcase doesn’t have those blasted sacred tablets. He covers with the body of the first and finishes off the last two— they don’t even have time to get out of the car.

Beyond the shouts of horror and car alarms he hears police sirens and doesn’t even look back at his Suzuki, throwing the driver out of the car and climbing into the Timor.

“And so, who’s the boss here?” He his the gas and switches the channel.

“The suitcase, Tetsurou,” Kai, who Kuroo had already forgotten about, reminds him in a controlled voice. Slowing down, he reaches one hand into the backseat, finds the suitcase and picks it up. Heavy, meaning either there’s something in there, or the Chinese took everything into account. Hopefully the first. 

“Okay, let’s see how to open this...” Kuroo puts it on his knees without looking, smoothly maneuvering into the slowest lane, lowers his gaze and— “Fucking hell, they’re password locked, that’s what!”

“That sucks,” Bokuto says, along with a few more curse words.

“ _ Fucking hell, _ ” Yaku hisses.

“What does the lock look like?” asks Kai.

“Mechanical, not mounted,” Kuroo tells them, supporting the suitcase with one knee and pressing the gas at the same time. “Four discs...double-digit numbers on each one.”

“Let’s try eight zeroes!” Bokuto suggests.

“...They’re all on zero. But, good try, Bo.”

“Eight ones?” Bokuto continues to suggest options.

“I’m not even going to bother...”

The road turns left and Kuroo has to lower the sun visor to keep from squinting.

“Who’s our suitcase lock-picking specialist?” He asks, smirking. “What, we don’t have one? Dang, no one started with stealing from airports? Losers.”

“Keep talking like that, Kuroo, and you’ll just keep driving with your eight zeroes,” Konoha drawls — he’s got excellent timing.

“Should’ve just stayed silent.”

“Do you know how to crack it?” Yaku asks, ignoring Kuroo.

“But of course,” Konoha stretches the vowels and adds, “So to start with, you need a stethoscope.”

“Stethoscope.” Kuroo slaps his palms against the steering wheel. “Incredible. I get out my stethoscope... What the fuck is a stethoscope? Bo, do you know what a stethoscope is?”

“No clue. Do you have a stethoscope with you, bro?”

“Me? No. How about you, guys?” He asks the corpses on the backseat. “No, Bo, they don’t have any either. What’re we gonna do?”

“You...” he can practically see Yaku frowning. “You’re not alone in the car?”

“Do the corpses of my Chinese friends count? Don’t make fun of them.”

“Chinese?” Yaku asks disbelievingly. “In your car? Dead?”

“But still sensitive! What, do you have something against dead people?”

“Maybe we should get back to the stethoscope?” Konoha reminds them.

“Maybe we should get back to the fact that I don’t have one?”

“What if we just shoot the lock?” Bokuto suggests.

“And destroy the sacred tablets?” Yaku asks indignantly, in a dangerous voice. “Jesus, Bokuto!”

“You just called them sacred tablets!” Kuroo doesn’t hold back his exclamation and happily slams the steering wheel.

“I didn’t call them sacred tablets!”

“Bo, confirm!”

“Bo confirms! So, shooting the suitcase isn’t an option?”

“The suitcase is probably bulletproof,” Konoha comments cheerfully. “It’s Triad, they wouldn’t cheap out. I’m serious, Kuroo. You need —”

“A stethoscope, I got that. Where would I find you one, dearie?” Kuroo can’t take it anymore and hides his irritation with an overly sweet tone. “Shall I rob a hospital on the way?”

“Well then you should also rob a supermarket and a home goods store, because you’ll also need scissors, an aluminum can, a hammer, an angle grinder and a wooden prosthetic leg.”

The line is silent.

Then Bokuto’s voice softly says, “I don’t understand anything, unless this was a reference to —”

“You’re kidding, right?” Kuroo clarifies sharply.

“No, seriously, in the prison break scene —”

“Yes.” The way Konoha Akinori is rolling his eyes must be visible from orbit, if it’s audible over radio. “You can skip the aluminum can.”

“Your jokes are shit. Bokuto, your underling makes shitty jokes! Deal with it!”

“Stethoscope, Kuroo. Get a stethoscope. You’re smart, you’ll figure something out.”

***

It’s official: Kuroo hates this guy.

On the way he has to dodge police cars, because even lazy Jakartan cops, used to the lawlessness of the streets, can’t let a shootout on a main highway go unpunished. Although, they’re not chasing him very hard: it seems like they know what’s happening in the city, and aren’t burning with the desire to join the fray.

When Kuroo jumps out of a pharmacy somewhere in the narrow alleys of Glodok, the air temperature seems to break forty, and rain starts pouring in torrents. Kuroo gets back to the car soaked to the bone, but with a stethoscope.

“I got it,” he declares triumphantly. “Now what?”

And suddenly Yamamoto’s on air. “Twenty kilometers down Pitara.” His voice is disappointed. “And I have no idea where they’re even going. Do I continue?”

Kuroo wants to respond, but Yaku beats him to it, and what he says suddenly really appeals to Kuroo.

“Stop them, Tora. Stop them and just, go all the way out. I’m sick of these games and surprises.”

“And here we have an appearance from Dark Yaku!” Kuroo cheers, pulling the suitcase towards himself.

“Because he’s usually so positive,” Shirofuku snickers.

Judging by the sound of teeth grinding, Yaku’s ready to cut them all in their sleep, so Kuroo reminds them that he got the stethoscope, complains about the rain and demands Konoha take responsibility.

“Did you get the leg prosthetic?” Konoha asks, but everyone quickly hushes him.

The next nearly ten minutes Kuroo spends in the most idiotic manner possible: sitting with the suitcase on his knees, stethoscope in his ears, and trying to listen to the clicks while he turns the discs.

“So how’s it—”

“Quiet!” Kuroo hisses, stopping the blabber for the nth time. It lasts for about three seconds, before he pulls one of the stethoscope’s arms out of his ear and groans tragically, throwing his head back in the seat. 

“Nope, I’m done, I can’t take this anymore. I feel like a dumbass.”

“That doesn’t usually faze you,” Shirofuku giggles.

“Hardly anything fazes me.” Kuroo smirks evilly, stretching his fingers and imagining himself strangling someone with them.

“It’ll be easier to guess,” Yaku grumbles.

Bokuto protests. “Four discs and two digits each, that’s like... a hundred million combos. Not even a little bit easier.” 

“Something you want to tell us about your hidden talents?” Shirofuku asks curiously.

“Fine. Fine!” Kuroo shouts, exasperated, and puts the stethoscope back on. “I’ll try it. Just shut up.”

***

When he finally gets it, half an hour has gone by. In that time it feels like Kuroo has learned how to distinguish clicks of any tonality, from G minor to D flat major. And his mom always said he was tone deaf!

The last click sounds when the number two slides into position in front of the pin.

“FIVE EIGHT ZERO THREE NINE ONE TWO TWO!” Kuroo yells triumphantly.

Instead of applause he gets: “Well! Open it!”

“Yea-a-a-a-ah,” Kuroo mumbles, and opens the heavy bulletproof lid.

“Well?” Yaku asks impatiently.

Kuroo leans back against the seat. He, naturally, doesn’t believe in fate, but sometimes it’s just obvious.

“Kuroo!” Yaku barks, irritated.

Fate hates him.

“There’s nothing here, shove off,” Kuroo answers, distressed, feeling the cloth lining of the suitcase with his hand.

“Bro, don’t feel bad,” Bokuto whispers in a low voice. “You’ll get lucky next time!”

Kuroo soulfully answers, “You really think so? I still have a chance?”

“Listen, never give up. You always have to believe in yo—”

“I will kill you both,” Yaku promises. “One more tragicomedy and I will actually kill you both. Kuroo, where are you going now?”

“Well, if nothing’s changed,” Kuroo answers in an extremely normal voice, starting the car and pushing the suitcase off his knees. The rain’s finally stopped, leaving behind wet streets, which will probably dry in minutes under the blazing sun. Kuroo turns on the wipers and departs. “Then right now we and Inuoka’s car are moving in one direction. So I’ll catch up to him, pick him up, and we’ll have two suitcases. Knowing our luck,” he adds, driving onto the side road around the traffic and breaking every single traffic law. Judging by the crash sounds behind him and belligerent honking, he just ruined someone’s day and their standing with their insurance provider. “Probably empty ones, but we’re nothing if not risk-takers. Good plan?”

“The most important thing is that it doesn’t go to shit, like all your good plans.”

Kuroo isn’t even mad when he signs off.

“Inuoka, mi amigo!” he cheerfully exclaims into the mic a few seconds later. “Time to test how well you’ve absorbed Bokuto’s teachings! Do you want to try driving for a bit?”

Inuoka, it seems, is choking on air in the other silver Timor. He doesn’t say anything, but Kuroo is certain Inuoka does not want to drive for a bit. Most likely, Inuoka wants to go back to his calm life of transporting narcotics in black bags labeled “Church property, do not open.”

“So basically, buddy, the plan is thus: at the next traffic light shoot the guys from the back, then aim your gun at the driver’s head and force him to pull over at the nearest curb — but only where it’s legal to park, we don’t want to have to pay a fine for parking, yeah? And as soon as he turns the car off, you finish with him and wait for me, I’m on the second roundabout in Barata.”

Inuoka doesn’t respond, but in the background, someone says something in Chinese and then laughs.

“Oh, what a great joke,” Kuroo comments. Then adds: “Now shoot him.”

And instantly, shots ring out from the other end of the call.

***

“Wait, you really shot him?” Kuroo can’t believe his ears.

“It wasn’t me,” Inuoka answers weakly.

And in the headphones someone says, in excellent English: “Get down! This is the Cartel!”

“The Cartel?!” More gunshots, screeching breaks, Chinese swearing. “Shit! Tendou!”

And that name explains more to Kuroo than all of the previous gunshots combined. He slams the gas pedal into the floor.

On the other end of the line is a bacchanalia in the best traditions of a chaotic shootout: everyone’s yelling, everyone’s shooting, Inuoka appears to be hiding.

“It was one of their guys,” the same voice whispers somewhere close. “Those bitches! Dragged him through our ranks somehow!”

Suddenly there’s yelling in English, then a hit, then Chinese again, the word “driver,” and then Inuoka’s terrified “He’s dead!”

“Mother of fuck, grab the steering wheel! The steering wheel!”

“I don’t...” 

“Shut up and floor it, we’re going to the port! The port!”

“Got it the first time,” thinks Kuroo, sharply turning onto another street. Out of four cars, three are still going, and if Yamamoto got the one going south, that makes two: Inuoka’s and the one leading Yaku to the west of the city. The image inspires Kuroo, and everything seems marginally less terrible now. Leaving Inuoka connected, he connects to Yaku’s private line. “Missed me, babe?”

There’s a round of gunshots from that side too. You can’t leave any of them alone for even a second!

“I could go another hundred years without hearing your voice.”

“What’s happening over there?”

“Some thugs jumped in, bastards,” Yaku hisses. “Crawled out of fuck-knows-where with Kalashnikovs, shot up the whole car.”

“Inuoka just had a similar scene. He’s got — ta-daaaa! — The Cartel. How about you?”

“Don’t think so. These aren’t Ushiwaka’s kind of guys. Totally unknown faces.”

“How many?”

“About five... Yeah, five. Giving Lev a weapon would just be worse for us, I — Fuck you, this is a new cassock, assface! — I’m firing back, the Chinese guys are firing too, basically, all of us are fucking shooting at these guys and not letting them come near the car. And waiting for Bokuto and company. They’re coming in ten.”

Kuroo already doesn’t envy their position: not the poor Chinese guys in the car, trapped in the intersection shootout, not the mysterious five losers jumping into someone else’s problem. Bokuto and Shirofuku are the muscle of their motley little crew: a girl with a Tavor in each hand an an AK-12 strapped to her back and a boy wanted in fifty-eight countries. If you can call people over thirty “boy” and “girl”.

Kuroo passes someone’s crossover and floors it to the intersection in the oncoming traffic lane.

“You don’t have to miss me, I’ll watch.”

And almost meets a minibus head on.

The driver’s faces could represent a new artistic movement. In the last moment, Kuroo squeezes past a sedan and drives into the fast lane, ignoring the outraged cacophony of honks surrounding him. And then he realizes, exactly what’s annoying him so much in his peripheral vision and squints into the rearview mirror. Uhuh. Sure, he’s made some automobile-related mistakes today, but that doesn’t mean you can write him off completely. Running away from Date, he crossed the whole southern coast of Australia. He knows what a tail looks like.

“Keep me posted,” he says slowly, running a red light. Soon all the cops in Jakarta are going to hate him. “I’m signing off. I think I’m also invited to this party.”

***

He assumes the cops haven’t figured out exactly where to catch him yet (police blockades and helicopters overhead are pretty noticeable) so he decides he’s got time for a little duel. Especially since shooting them is more convenient than leading them to the port, whoever this is.

Kuroo’s betting on the Sunrise Cartel.

He reduces his speed a little and changes lanes, then goes into the left lane again, stops at a stop light, like a responsible driver, lets a Volkswagen pass him and reduces his speed until he’s side-by-side with his stalker, a right-hand driving BMW. And cordially lowers the glass, to get some not-so-cordial gunshots into the opened window.

Kuroo drops down on the seat and understands what a smart decision he’d made when he stopped this car and shot through the opened doors, and also why the two Chinese guards didn’t get out of the car in the first place: the frame is bulletproof. Time to say a word of gratitude for their practical Chinese minds.

He makes a few shots blindly, hears swearing, increases his speed and straightens up. However, the new BMW catches up very quickly. From the passenger seat a skinny kid, wearing a business suit for some reason, stares at him, and with an excited flush on his cheeks points in his direction with a gun.

“Who’re you?” Kuroo asks politely, pressing on the trigger and answering his courtesy with a courtesy.

The kid manages to duck, and then stick his head out the window and answer “Goshiki! Goshiki Tsutomu!”

“Say what?” Another gunshot.

“Goshiki Tsutomu!” The kid yells even louder. “Go-shi-ki!”

Kuroo’s almost endeared. Especially when the kid follows it up with “And soon you’ll remember my name! I’m going to be the next head of the Cartel!”

Judging by the kid’s cute face he’s about twenty-five, and Kuroo decides to laugh about it at length later. Or sympathize, since ambitions like that don’t last long in this city. So instead of an answer, he stretches his arm out and shoots the future head of the Cartel in the face.

To the latter’s credit, he dodges, almost hitting the glove compartment with his forehead, and when he raises his head, looks almost offended. “Give us the suitcase, Kuroo Tetsurou?”

Kuroo’s smugness returns, and he changes his mind about shooting. Or maybe he changes his mind because the road makes a steep turn here and he needs both hands on the steering wheel.

“Give you what?” he yells.

“The suitcase!”

“The what?”

“The suit— you’re making fun of me!” Goshiki finally realizes, and he shoots.

Kuroo dives again, and then when he pops back up, shoots in response and asks, “How did you know I’m Kuroo Tetsurou?”

“I was told that if I see a black-haired, unshaven man in a black tank top and with a very strange hairstyle, to shoot on sight!” Goshiki yells over the sound of the wind. His car makes a U-turn. “And I saw photos! By the way, what’s up with your hairstyle?”

“It’s always been like this!” Kuroo snaps and in his indignation makes a few more attempts to kill the future storm of Jakarta.

“Not true! It looked a lot better on the photographs from three years ago!”

They slowly but surely approach Kota Tua, where Kuroo would prefer not to invite any more Cartel people, so he really needs to finish off this child and his team.

Kuroo throws the shotgun aside and, praying the car doesn’t go off course, trades it for an unwieldy Colt. Holding it in one hand, Kuroo sends a warm hello at the BMW. He can hear Goshiki swearing as he ducks and accidentally hits something on the control panel. Music suddenly starts blasting.

“Oh, it’s Ariana Grande!” Kuroo yells happily. “Keep that on!”

He suddenly hits the brakes, letting the BMW pass ahead of him. Behind them there’s barely any cars left. Everyone had panicked and changed lanes, but in front of them there’s still a couple loitering. Kuroo has a plan. Not very simple or very genius, this time, so theoretically, it could work.

He goes around the car from the back, lining up with it on the driver’s side to the right, and gestures at Goshiki to open the window. The boy spins his finger next to his temple in a “you’re crazy” sign and Kuroo, rolling his eyes, throws the colt on the backseat. 

The glass slides down.

“You need the suitcase?” Kuroo yells.

“Yeah!” Goshiki answers.

“And then you’ll leave me alone?”

“We have nothing else to deal with here! And I was only told to take the suitcase!”

“Here you go, then!” Kuroo yells, and launches the case right into the open window. And then grabs the steering wheel with both hands and rams into the side of the Cartel’s car. At one hundred thirty kilometers an hour the inertia from the hit does its job, the BMW flies into the adjacent lane and straight into oncoming traffic.

Kuroo turns onto the exit to Kota Tua.

***

Because of the tussle with Goshiki, Kuroo has to take the western roads into the Port’s territory, where the road loops into the labyrinthine docks.

“I-nu-o-ka!” Kuroo singsongs, going back online. “What’s up, where are you?”

The docks are a symbiosis of old warehouses, new hangers, ropes under walls, crates in walkways, signs indicating directions for movers. There are main roads here for the dockworkers, and narrow spaces between buildings.

“In the port,” Inuoka answers honestly.

Kuroo doesn’t even have time to slap himself on the head— this is just too stupid of a hole in his cover — when he hears another voice on the line.

“I see that, moron. Are you going to find the wharf today or not?” Despite the multitude of signs, it’s genuinely difficult to find your way around at the docks, simple because, if you accidentally miss your turn, you could easily wake up in Chile. “Come on, while that monster Tendou’s gone somewhere.”

Kuroo could share with them the collective opinion of Jakarta that, if Tendou’s disappeared somewhere, that doesn’t mean anything good.

“Hm,” Inuoka coughs uncomfortably. “To which wharf, did you say?”

“Are you an imbecile? No, seriously, tell me, are you an imbecile? I’ve told you like ten times, idiot: the fifth one!”

The mood lifts. Kuroo turns around, searching for someone to share in his joy. One of the bodies falls to the floor. Everyone should have a support team like that. In good times and in bad, or whatever they say.

As soon as it’s all over, Kuroo will recommend this wonderful child to Nekomata for a promotion. Even though Kuroo’s raised hand at any Church election is now interpreted as a target for shooting practice.

Okay, fifth wharf. Kuroo’s sure that’s behind the tall tower of crates on the corner. He turns the car ninety degrees and instantly sees an identical car driving around the next turn. If something looks like the car the sacred tablets are in, and is driving in the right direction, than either it’s the Timor of the family pair who stopped at a gas station, or the car in which Inuoka is putting up with being called an imbecile.

The car instantly vanishes, but even a few seconds are enough for Kuroo to realize: the plan’s working. The Timor zigzags, back tires sliding across a fresh puddle. The hum under the hood and the sound of opening champagne bottles is joined by splashing water and the rustle of wheels. Someone else’s wheels.

Kuroo jerks to the left, towards the sound, and sees it.

Tendou disappearing from your field of field of vision is a bad sign. Tendou reappearing from your field of vision after disappearing for a while is twice as bad.

Kuroo drives past this gap between warehouses, Tendou drives onto the road a second later and instantly falls into pursuit.

“Disgusting,” Kuroo barks to himself, pressing a button on his headset without particularly caring which frequency he lands on.

Tendou’s in the rearview mirror, taking some kind of weapon out of its case.

“Disgusting!” Kuroo barks louder.

“What’s going on over there?” Yaku asks without much enthusiasm. In the background there’s gunshots, scuffling, and yelling in Chinese.

“Tendou Satori.” Holding back the irritation, like Kuroo had originally intended, doesn’t work, so Kuroo spits the rest of the sentence out with the required amount of venom. “The man himself.”

“Yup, that’s me,” Tendou seems to say, taking a few shots at Kuroo’s bumper.

Kuroo gloats, and then remembers that in movies that kind of thing usually ends with holey tires. He’ll turn ninety degrees, destroy some warehouse’s wall with his little car’s hood and die buried under a pile of waterlogged wood chips.

“Fantastic.” Kuroo can almost see Yaku frowning. “Tendou Satori.”

Kuroo goes left, then right. There’s not a lot of room to maneuver here, lots of turns, they’re not going faster than sixty kilometers an hour, you can’t even call this a chase (more of a potato-sack race, if anything) and it’s only a matter of time before Tendou hits a tire and the Church has to hold a funeral for Kuroo.

Option “sudden stop” won’t work: Tendou’s not stupid, staying back at a distance, although it’d be cool to see him grab the trunk of Kuroo’s Timor and somersault over it to land on the hood.

Tendou’s always had a habit of dying and then coming back to life, so either the Cartel has a secret cloning lab, or someone’s a very resilient bastard.

“Just fucking try to kill him,” Yaku hisses, and then grumbles about something happening in front of him.

“Yaku, are you crazy? I’d be doing the whole city a favor if I shoot this guy!”

“He’s Washijou’s right hand,” Yaku lectures, like Kuroo’s a child. “We don’t need problems with the Cartel.”

“You mean we don’t have problems with the Cartel right now? I’ll go tell Tendou that, maybe he’ll stop trying to blast through my trunk.”

“You understand, though, right?” Yaku emphasizes.

Kuroo knows killing Tendou is tantamount to declaring an open war with the Sunrise Cartel, never mind that in the same Cartel half their people would sigh with relief. Old man Nekomata doesn’t need full-scale problems with Washijou. The Church is only saved from that by the fact that their market is Oceania, and the Cartel sells their drugs further north in Asia. Although the idea of Tendou’s head on a pike under a crucifix is very appealing.

“What’s up with y’all?” Kuroo asks, groaning. The turns repeat more and more frequently, his steering wheel keeps spinning back and forth.

“Still shooting, but we’ve got the suitcase.” Yaku’s quiet, then blurts, “Gotta go, don’t do anything stupid,” and switches off before Kuroo can explain that stupid stuff isn’t Kuroo’s department.

Also not Kuroo’s department: letting any random bastard make him dance for their entertainment. Although that’s probably what his attempts to throw off the pursuit look like from an outsider’s perspective.

Kuroo’s got his Colt on the passenger seat beside him and a knife under his left pant leg. His only plan is to drop his speed and drift, using his car to block the last straight to point B, but...

The wharf is only fifty meters away, according to the rusting sign at the next turn. The arrow’s pointing right, and Kuroo follows. That takes three seconds, and Kuroo recovers when he’s almost level with Tendou.

In the side mirror he sees Tendou, bent low, shift his cannon from one hand to the other. Which sucks.

Because in the next moment Tendou sticks his arm out and shoots Kuroo’s tires. Not for a second, not two, not three: he keeps shooting for exactly as long as he needs in order to destroy Kuroo’s front wheels. The car suddenly and uncontrollably jerks sideways, and the inertia pushes Kuroo forward so hard, that he can’t handle it even holding onto the steering wheel. The Timor goes rogue and rams into the metal guardrails on the wharf.

The air’s knocked straight out of his lungs. Kuroo tries to inhale. His ribs squeeze tight and don’t let go. The thought that the Timor doesn’t have airbags goes through his head, but at least he doesn’t have to straighten out a broken nose today.

He appears to be alive, which is already excellent news!

Trying to get it together, so the “being alive” thing continues to happen, Kuroo feels for the Colt with his right hand and lowers the window with his left. He looks out of it for a few seconds: there’s Tendou’s back, bending over a motorcycle. There’s a silver Timor stopped at a ramp. There’s a line of tourists in colorful shirts waiting to board a cruise liner, Tendou’s back again, spinning rear wheel, gray asphalt.

Pressing his free hand to his sternum, Kuroo aims and empties out the whole clip at once. You only really need one shot for a motorcycle wheel, but that fucker slammed Kuroo into a fence!

Tendou manages to drive forward about ten meters, the motorcycle leans hard to the left, the rear wheel doggedly tries to switch places with the front wheel, and a metallic screech sounds. At that speed he wouldn’t be able to walk away from that without a few pulverized bones. Kuroo isn’t even sure he’ll be able to fulfill Yaku’s request.

“Take that, bastard.” Kuroo grins smugly, kicks the door open, and then sees that what he’d already written off as a lifeless corpse is barely bruised.

Kuroo slams the door closed again, jumps into the adjacent seat, opens the door again and falls out in a crouch. In a smooth movement the silver Timor turns into a shelter.

Tendou crawls behind the streetline: a lit-up stand with an advertisement the height of a person. Kuroo shoots at random and misses.

“Well, well, well, who do we have here?” Tendou singsongs, stretching out the vowels.

Under the ramp tourists run in different directions: the black cars surrounding Inuoka’s Timor apparently belong to the Cartel, while the black cars surrounding the black cars surrounding Inuoka’s Timor are probably the Chinese.

Kuroo won’t get past Tendou. That’s a fact.

Tendou has an automatic, and Tendou knows how to shoot. That is also a fact.

If Kuroo gets lucky and survives, there’s no point in surviving: Nekomata will forgive his sins with a Beretta straight to his forehead.

“I’ll give you three guesses,” Kuroo yells, falling on his ass and pulling his neck in.

They both have better things to do. Busy people, full schedule, important decisions — for example, should they meet with their business partners or drive into the sunset with their dollar stereoplates. Shooting Kuroo faster is in Tendou’s best interest, and the feeling is mutual: the bride loves the groom, the groom loves the bride, you may now exchange gunfire.

Tendou is quiet for a few moments. Kuroo doesn’t hear any scuffling on the asphalt, or the sound of reloading, and then Tendou requests, “Hey, say something else,” and releases a round of gunshots.

How are they supposed to get to know each other in this environment?

Bullets hit the far side of the Timor. The sound radiates across the metal in a wave. The shooting melts into a single cacophony of gunfire.

This is a pointless waste of time for both of them. They could sit like that for half a day. Until the sacred tablets make half of their journey from point A to point B and Tendou’s friends pick him up from daycare, while Yaku comes to get Kuroo and tell him what’s for dinner.

The idea of spending the rest of his life talking to Tendou is poor entertainment for Kuroo.

“You alive over there?” Kuroo yells, leaning against the side of a crate and inhaling loudly. He fires a few bullets, peeking out from behind the car, just for appearance’s sake.

“Yeah,” Tendou answers.

He wants to say something else, but Kuroo interrupts with a short, “Sucks.”

“Your voice is weirdly familiar. Oikawa?”

“Now that hurts.”

“Yeah, that’s a miss,” Tendou agrees. “Daishou?”

“You’re mocking me,” Kuroo groans loudly. He looks out sharply and shoots at a glimpse of someone else’s boot.

“Kuroo Tetsurou?” Tendou Satori chuckles, disbelief in his voice. “Is it really you?”

“What a twist, isn’t it.” Kuroo realizes with some despair he didn’t even graze Tendou.

“You’re still alive? What an unpleasant surprise.”

“Might say the same to you. Disappointing.”

“What’s that on your head, by the way?”

Look who’s talking.

Kuroo sees through two windows how Tendou looks out and presses a wide palm against the masterpiece of hairdressing on his brilliant little head. He’s showing Kuroo an unfounded and unfair approximation of a rooster’s comb, but before Kuroo has time to look out and shoot the bastard, he quickly hides.

“I’m so sick of y’all,” he says completely honestly.

Kuroo knows what’s going to start next.

A lot could be said about Tendou.

In Jakarta, his name was synonymous with gunfire, explosions, and global destruction. People who messed with the Cartel preferred to die by other means rather than wait for his arrival. Everyone knows trouble always brings a friend, and Tendou, too, rarely went anywhere alone.

At least, that’s how it was three years ago.

“Where’s your buddy?” Kuroo asks, briskly pulling up to the neighboring two-meter cargo outpost, closer to the Chinese group. He crouches. “Did you two break up?”

“Am I not enough for you?” Tendou sounds sincerely perplexed. “How rude!”

And blasts his machine gun.

“No, I’m serious!” Kuroo yells, dropping down almost to the ground. “Where’s Ushiwaka?”

“You do realize that’s not actually his name?” Tendou asks.

“He’s not here anyway, he won’t mind.” Kuroo shrugs dramatically, but Tendou can’t see it.

“It’d be very inconvenient if he suddenly showed up, huh?”

“Are you bluffing right now or what?”

Kuroo isn’t expecting an honest answer. Kuroo doesn’t even care anymore. There’s a level of “bad” on the scale of shitty situations after which you stop caring which levels of hell you’re thrown off an airplane into.

He has to distract Tendou. He could ditch this car, there’s an acceptable flower bed he could hide behind further back. He could throw a harpoon into a cruise liner, shoot Tendou mid-flight and escape, but that kind of thing only happens in movies.

“You know we’re going to be sitting like this for fuck knows how long, right?” Kuroo asks, wincing. “At least put the automatic away.”

Tendou expresses his agreement with another round of machine gun fire.

“What’s happening over there?” Yaku’s voice sounds in his headset.

“Fun and games with Tendou,” Kuroo explains in an almost friendly voice, reloading. “Terrible party, the company sucks.”

“That’s hurtful,” Tendou drawls.

“When you’re firing at me, that’s also hurtful, you know.”

“That’s how I show I like you!”

“Feeling’s not mutual, my apologies!”

“You’re breaking my heart. Okay, one sec, I’m getting a call.”

“Of course, I’ll shoot more quietly.” Kuroo really doesn’t want to get in the way, but it happens. “Yaku, what’s happening with you guys?”

“We have an empty suitcase —” bad news “ — and Bokuto with his group.” Better news.

“So then get outta there, what’s the hold up?” 

“Your Bokuto refuses to leave. He says they just got here.”

“Damn, switching to the main line.” Kuroo snickers and switches frequencies. “Hey Bo, Yaku says you’re devilishly handsome and unstoppable.”

“Did he really say it like that?” Bokuto cackles.

“I didn’t say anything like that,” Yaku hmphs, tiredly.

On the other line the gunfire chaos makes his shootout with Tendou look like a children’s party in the background. Kuroo makes a sound of respect.

Speaking of Tendou.

“Making noise, shooting, refusing to leave, even though you’re already asking him to?” Kuroo hears him say into a phone somewhere behind the barricades.

“Oh, Bo, they’re talking about you here too!” Kuroo exclaims, and tries to blow Tendou’s head off.

“Kuroo.” Yaku’s on the line again. “Tora’s suitcase is empty. Inuoka has the plates.”

“Holy shit,” Kuroo says, and adds: “Goddamn. Fine, okay.”

“It’s up to you.”

“I’m, like, being shot at.” Kuroo bends his head to the side, when the bullets slam into the car right next to his beautiful hairstyle.

“Dodge.”

Great advice, Yaku, thanks.

“I’m working on it.”

“You said you’ve been sitting there for seven minutes without doing shit.”

“I’m a freelancer, why are you even giving me orders?”

“Because I’m your boss and you have no choice.”

Yaku’s right about the lack of choice, but he’ll be Kuroo’s boss when hell freezes over. Terrible day. After all this he’ll just break into the pantry and drink all the communion wine.

Kuroo manages to get even closer to the Chinese gang, when there’s an almost sonic boom in his headset. Kuroo squeezes his eyes shut and says a quick prayer for his eardrums. When the sound dies down, he asks, “What was that over there?”

“Everything’s fine,” Shirofuku answers on the line. “It’s Konoha. Blew up the car.”

“So is he your thief or your explosives guy?” Kuroo stumbles, rolling from one hideout to another. “Tendou, fuck off!”

“You’re such an egoist!” Tendou answers cheerfully.

Kuroo throws his Colt over one shoulder and blindly shoots at the voice. And in the next second he understands that the Colt is done shooting, and the hand reaching into his pocket doesn’t feel that last clip Kuroo was pinning all his hopes on. Mother of fuck.

He has enough time to come up with three ways to get out of this situation, and then shoot down all three of them as not feasible, when he realizes he hasn’t heard any gunfire in almost a minute.

“Tendou?” he asks, frowning, but doesn’t come out of the hideout.

“Yeah?” he gets in response.

Without endless gunfire the silence is deafening. And Tendou’s being quiet. 

Kuroo is visited by an unbelievable realization.

“You empty?” he asks.

“Are you?”

“I asked first.”

“I don’t want to answer first.”

“So you’re empty,” Kuroo states, satisfied. Finally, an opportunity. Unfortunately, not only for him.

“You too,” Tendou says.

There’s a brief silence while they both take a breather.

And then Kuroo steps out of his hideout. Tendou throws his automatic at him and steps on his foot. Kuroo bites Tendou’s wrist, feeling the tendons snap under his teeth. They fly towards the ramp in a ball. The Cartel hesitates to shoot. Can Kuroo claim to have achieved peace by letting Tendou grab his ass?

“Yo, watch the hands,” he hisses.

“Couldn’t help myself.” Tendou slams an elbow in Kuroo’s long-suffering ribs. “Your hairstyle is too gorgeous. Like, what even is that?”

Kuroo insistently suggests he leave, first with a fist to the jaw, then with a headbutt. His teeth clatter, his skull’s complaining too. When they approach the first Chinese car, he kicks a dude in tasteless bright blue jeans. The dude falls into the car, Tendou hides from his colleagues, pulls a gun out of his hands, and shoots the guys hiding behind that very car. Kuroo falls on the ground and sweeps a leg up. He tries to stand and jump over that dumbass to steal a spare Mauser from the now-dead Chinese man, but jumps too early and lands on Tendou from above.

“First you’re asking me to watch my hands, now you’re jumping me yourself.” Tendou tries to aim at him, but Kuroo steps on his wrist. He grabs the Mauser, almost hits that redheaded bastard, and finally gets a kick in the sternum for his troubles.

“Port security! Attention, this is the port security!” a loudspeaker declares.

“Stop flirting with me, I don’t like redheads,” Kuroo tsks. Tendou kicks him in the leg. “Hey, you got my jeans dirty.”

“Take them to a dry cleaner’s, the Cartel will cover it.” Tendou jumps up, Kuroo shoots at him without taking into account his recent negative experience with wasted rounds.

“Will Washijou drop them off at my place?” Kuroo hides behind the car’s hood, Tendou hides behind the bumper.

“Port security! Drop your weapons!” The loudspeaker again, closer now.

No one’s even paying attention to them. Kuroo might develop a complex.

The Cartel and the Triad are busy shooting at each other, so the security guards end up closest to him and Tendou. Kuroo spends a few seconds pretending they’ve got the wrong room, but the guards keep aiming at him, so. He tries to understand what Tendou’s thinking, and politely says, “Guys, give us a minute, we’re in the middle of something here.”

“Weapons on the ground!”

Kuroo turns around furiously, looks, and almost chokes from laughter. Since when does port security ride around on golf carts?

“Sweet wheels, guys,” Tendou marvels.

“Practically fire,” Kuroo agrees.

“Put the weapons down or we shoot.”

“In a minute,” Tendou drawls.

“Weapons down! Now!”

They instantly exchange a glance. The spark of understanding passing between them could burn down a small village. That’s how people understand each other when they’re in the exactly identical garbage situation and can only share their misery with each other.

So in the next second they raise their guns in such unison, the world of synchronized swimming weeps for what could have been.

They shoot at the same time too. The idyll is broken by the bodies falling at different times. The guy on the right slumps over in the cabin, while the one on the left falls onto the ground.

“Because you shouldn’t be fucking rude,” Kuroo summarizes. And then aims his gun at Tendou and shoots one more time.

Unsuccessfully, of course.

Tendou sighs dramatically, clutching the Mauser to his chest. “You understand there’s no point, right? The Cartel’s going to end up with the stereoplates.”

“Say that again,” Kuroo suggests. “I love the pathos.”

“I can do poetry, too.”

“Dang, you’re like the Lord Byron of Indonesia’s underworld!”

Tendou hums in agreement, and then suddenly jumps up and dodges. Kuroo turns, and he doesn’t like what he sees.

Someone in a black suit and carrying a suitcase through the gunfire is racing up the ramp. Kuroo runs after the person, in the process aiming at everyone who’s shooting at him. Kuroo catches up to Tendou right at the incline and shoves him down, grabbing his leg mid-jump and accidentally taking off Tendou’s green slip-on shoe. He stares at it incredulously.

“Wow, take the second one while you’re at it!” Tendou snorts, and kicks Kuroo in the forehead.

It’s painful and degrading. Kuroo feels like a vengeful ex-girlfriend, shooting at Tendou’s legs, but Tendou’s a little better at running away from a chase than he is.

They’re running up the ramp to the cruise liner. Kuroo almost slips on the worn rug. An unknown man in a sailor’s cap is looking at them with an expression Kuroo doesn’t have time to decipher, because the vile Tendou fucking trips him. So Kuroo’s chin ends up getting well acquainted with all three guardrails on the deck.

A Chinese guy runs along the side of the liner. They try to shoot both him and each other at the same time. Friendship wins out: one of them hits the guy in the head, the other in the back.

They start moving equally in sync, pushing each other with their hands.

“You’re taking up too much space.” Kuroo shoves Tendou with his shoulder and pulls ahead. Tendou immediately pulls him back by his elbow. The smooth waxed floor slides under Kuroo’s feet. Before he falls, Kuroo manages to grab Tendou by the shoulder blades and stay upright.

“Thank you.”

“Any time.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“The feeling is mutual.” Kuroo then remembers that Tendou has a gun.

He also remembers that he has a gun himself, and hits the barrel of his gun against Tendou’s, and then his forehead against the same and runs forward. He grabs the miracle suitcase on the floor, turns around sharply and hits Tendou in the chin with the suitcase’s bulletproof corner.

Kuroo’s heard that shit doesn’t sink, but decides to check anyway. So he kicks Tendou in the stomach as hard as possible, throws the suitcase on the ground, grabs Tendou under his arms and, with some effort, throws him overboard.

“Fucking hell, Ku...” It’s not comfortable for Tendou to complain in flight, and then with a mouthful of saltwater from the Java Sea.

“I can’t hear you,” Kuroo singsongs, picking up the suitcase and dodging the usher. He returns to the wharf, pulling his head into his shoulders and hiding behind his trophy like a shield.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to choose. He leaps into the security guards’ golf cart holding the suitcase with one hand and pressing the gearshift all the way down with the other. He finally catches a break. This clown car can go slightly faster than a snail, and that’s really all Kuroo needed.

It’s all laughably simple. He has to drive in the direction from which he came. Just get to the end of the dock, pick a car and get the hell out of Dodge.

Get to the Church. Deliver the cursed tablets to Nekomata. Pay his debts. Leave this hell city and keep living his life.

And that’s when someone rams him in the side.

Kuroo and his golf cart fall on each other, the car on top. He wasn’t hit at a huge speed, but the impact is enough to make him moan from pain in his elbow, skin his chin and crack his back. The suitcase falls next to him, only a stretch away, and Kuroo reaches for it, then sees a pair of shiny shoes.

You can’t expect anything good from people who walk around in shoes like that. Kuroo lifts his skinned chin slightly. His neck hurts, but now he sees equally prissy trousers on a set of insanely long legs. If he stretches further, he gets a glimpse of a white button-down shirt. And then he doesn’t have to strain himself anymore because the owner of the most upper-crust rags in Indonesia bends over himself, showing off his light blond head of hair. He picks up the suitcase by the handle, looks up — and Kuroo sees the most annoyingly cutesy face he’s seen all day.

“I’ll be taking this.” The son of a bitch stretches his lips into an insincere smile, and then straightens up, and the last thing Kuroo hears before the world fades to black is: “Have a nice day.”

***

Jakarta in the evening is all watercolor washes. A whirlpool of blue shades: cobalt, aquamarine, indigo, sapphire, azure, cyan. The sky is layered with clouds and fog rising from the sea, pulling the city into a tight ring. The blue cools the asphalt, and the heat of day leaves the streets with the sunset. Life below bursts into bright spots: yellow-orange arteries of streets running through the town, orderly and organized like a beehive, pinpoints of light in the high rises of the office buildings, millions of little sparks scattered through the low residential regions.

Any other city covers itself with darkness when evening comes, using it to hide its dirty and sharp corners and become friendlier and prettier. Not Jakarta.

Jakarta revels in its nudity.

In the twilight, peaking out from the alleys, the neon signs of bars, brothels, and shabby drag hotels explode into light. Hookah bars with terraces stretch out along the strait, piled with pillows and half-naked girls, exhaling smoke through cherry-red lips. Music blasts, sometimes Chinese, sometimes Arab, usually English, although there’s rarely any white people here. Mopeds honk their horns, and the spiderweb of trains weaving through the city fills the air with an even drone of sound.

But from the height of fashionable, golden Setiabudi all that was almost invisible — if you didn’t know where to look, of course.

“You have to understand me,” the guest finishes.

“I understand,” Washijou agrees, nodding dryly to himself. “But that doesn’t mean I can allow this to influence my decisions. This is my city, because the Cartel is the strongest. And while I have the opportunity to remove obstacles impeding our power, I will do that.”

The emaciated silhouette, darkening against the panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows, is backlit by the blue light of the city. Gray hair brushed back, a disproportionately large head with a big nose and bushy brows, thin neck. Ideally fitted slate grey pinstriped suit, expensive shoes, unfriendly, serious gaze — despite his small height and incongruous appearance, Washijou Tanji knows how to make an impression.

He’s quiet for a bit, glumly examining the teeming city without stopping on anything specific.

A small, dry little old man at the very top of Hamaima Tower, his eagle nest.

“So you’re telling me to drop out of the game,” the guest drawls from his seat. “Interesting.”

“Consider a gesture of goodwill.” Washijou turns his back to the city and glares at his conversational partner. “We’ve never had any problems with you, Yasufumi.”

Nekomata smiles his usual smile, tilting his head to one side. He resembles an old, satiated cat, turned fluffy, if with a tail thinning from old age. He listens silently, narrowing eyes with light lashes.

“We let you exist.” Washijou shuffles to his massive oak table, entirely out of place in this glass, plastic and metal-paneled modern room. He picks up a glass from the table and swirls the cognac in it. The glass in Nekomata’s hands is almost empty. “Because you don’t bring us problems. Don’t” — Washijou bends his head, pausing. It creates the impression that he’s  _ asking.  _ — “Don’t try and cross our path. Your boys” — he purses his lips in displeasure — “caused us problems today. I didn’t like that.”

Their gazes meet. Washijou’s round, bulging eyes, and Nekomata’s thin, foxlike squint.

“I did you a favor as an old acquaintance, inviting you to the conversation instead of sending Ushijima to you,” Washijou says forcefully, taking a sip of his drink. “But that’s an exception, not the rule. Rein in your cats and forget about the stereoplates. The Cartel will take them.”

When Nekomata’s already on his way out, Washijou suddenly says, “And, Yasufumi...”

Nekomata stops with his hand on the door handle, and turns his head slightly.

“That boy.” Washijou grimaces. “Kuroo Tetsurou. If he’s working for you again, send him away. I don’t need him in this city. Too many problems.”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.” Nekomata smiles, and leaves the room.

“Drive,” he says darkly less than ten minutes later, and Naoi starts the car softly. The black Mercedes pulls out of the covered parking lot belonging to the Cartel’s business center. The sullen, pinched young people in uniforms, letting them through the barriers, hardly resemble ordinary security guards.

Nekomata tsks irritably, putting on glasses with thin frames to look at the buttons on his phone. He shifts his gaze to the light-drenched streets of Jakarta in the window and, when the other end of the call answers, says, “There’s no more time. Or options. Let him go. We need to find out where the plates are faster than that old bastard can do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a long chapter but hey tsukki's here now! yay!  
> next chapter's gonna take a few more days than usual bc I want to do another thing first thank u for understanding  
> as usual shout-out to jamie for the beta


	5. Chapter 5

Despite the distant sounds of the nighttime districts peeking through the long and thin window openings, it’s quiet here. Old boats, dirt, darkness, dampness. Somewhere, annoyingly, water is dripping. Shelves with dusty boxes stretch along all fifteen meters of the warehouse hidden at the southern end of the port docks.

Getting here such that neither the Church people or the Cartel’s runners followed him was a challenge in itself: he’s not used to this pace of work, where you could get shot by a weirdo from around the corner at any moment. And judging by the statistics, the whole city’s full of weirdos.

Tsukishima steps from one foot to the other, and the sound seems to fill the whole building.

Time passes. He was supposed to get picked up from the warehouse two hours ago, but he’s still here. And that irritates him to his core.

If he’s being completely honest, he doesn’t like being in this city by himself. The feeling is that Jakarta’s going to eat him the moment he blinks. A monster, not a city.

At first he warily focuses on every rustle, gripping the gun in his sweaty palm. Then the paranoia lifts, his heartbeat slows down a tiny bit, and he puts the gun on the crate beside him, so it’s still within view. The heavy suitcase presses down on his sharp knees, and the quiet presses on his ears.

After another half hour he hears noise.

Throwing his head up, Tsukishima listens more intently: there are car tires scraping against the gravel outside. The car drives along the far wall. He watches the light from the headlights bleed into the warehouse. His hand goes for the gun automatically, and, picking up the case, Tsukishima hides behind the shelves — the shadowiest place. He holds onto the weapon more tightly, raising a hand up to his shoulder. The heavy door opens with a clang.

“Kei?” a worried voice asks. “You there?”

The second of tension releases, and Tsukishima’s almost embarrassed about his reaction, but stops himself: it wasn’t fear, just common sense.

“Deputy Special Agent in Charge Sugawara.” He nods politely, coming out of the shadows and holding the suitcase closer to himself.

His mother taught him to be polite to elders. But Deputy Special Agent in Charge Sugawara doesn’t like that for some reason, and he sighs. “I told you, it’s Koushi.”

He’s standing in the doorway — a familiar silhouette in the sharp outlines of the light from the street. Light hair, open button-down over a white t-shirt. No visible weapon, probably in the holster behind his back.

“Yes, sorry, sir,” Tsukishima agrees for the nth time. “You’re later than expected. Did something go wrong?”

Sugawara shakes his head. “Kiyoko ordered me to wait a few hours, just in case. Did you do it?”

They weren’t in contact for safety reasons. Tsukishima followed the orders autonomously, acting at his own discretion. And though this level of freedom was never particularly enjoyable for him, judging by the suitcase in his hands, he did a respectable job. Without any false modesty.

He nods, walking past Sugawara to the exit.

“Yes, sir. Are we ready to leave?”

“Wait-wait, are you sure you have them?” Sugawara frowns, pushing his light hair off his forehead. On his pretty face is the desire to check everything right here, right now. Tsukishima does not roll his eyes, if only because he still remembers his upbringing. “Did you open the case?” Sugawara’s eyes slide down to the suitcase in Tsukishima’s hand. “Let me check.”

Tsukishima frowns. That’s hardly a good idea. Why does his superior want to check the contents of the case right here, in the field, when according to the plan they have to get out of here as fast as possible?

“I followed all the directions,” he drones in a bureaucrat’s voice, fixing his glasses. “And the directions clearly stated that opening the suitcase again is only allowed in fully secure conditions, sir.”

Sugawara raises his eyebrows slightly. The worry practically runs off his face like water, and in a tone of surprise he says, “Following the letter of the law, very commendable, Kei. But I think Kiyoko won’t appreciate it if we bring her a suitcase full of styrofoam instead of the stereoplates. Do you agree?”

Tsukishima wants to snark that he’s capable of distinguishing high-quality dollar printing plates from styrofoam, but instead he looks back over his shoulder with a honey-sweet smile, looking down on the inspector.

“I did say I conducted the preliminary inspection of the contents. The plates are inside. On top of that I assume that Special Agent in Charge Shimizu would appreciate us dying in the wilderness with an opened suitcase a lot less than a suitcase full of Styrofoam.”

Sugawara smiles in response. “They only teach you how to sass your superiors in the Academy these days, huh.” And laughs, twirling the keys around his finger. “Let’s ride, wiseguy.”

Rental cars are usually spotlessly clean. This is good, especially in Jakarta, where you have twice as many reasons to worry about what people paying a million rupiahs per three days for this Elantra were doing in it. It smells like chemicals drowned out by an air freshener. The radio’s working quietly.

Tsukishima sits, leaning against the window, finally relaxing his shoulders. He’s methodically cleaning his glasses with a cloth when Sugawara asks, “Will you tell me how it went” — he smirks, teasing — “or lay it all out in your report?”

The lights of oncoming traffic cast reflections on his face.

Tsukishima smiles in response. “Is this an order or are you worried about me?”

Sugawara sighs. “Kei.”

Like Tsukishima doesn’t know he’s occasionally difficult.

He starts to wipe his glasses again and, getting rid of the smile, sighs too. “I had to wait for a long time while they were shooting each other. It was like some kind of action movie sequence on that wharf. Everything else went according to plan.”

“So how did you manage to grab the plates from the Cartel?”

Tsukishima blinks at him, confused. “I never said the suitcase ended up with the Cartel.”

Sugawara raises his eyebrows, turning towards Kei and making him nervous. Kei doesn’t like when someone besides him is driving — it takes away his feeling of control over the situation, and he especially doesn’t like it when the driver’s constantly getting distracted from the road.

“No way. The Church? Incredible.” Sugawara turns back around, chuckling. “They didn’t have a chance on the car I was watching, until some brave kids carrying automatics joined them. I didn’t have a chance to photograph them, but our boy wonder’s trying to ID them as we speak.”

“There were only two people from the Church on the wharf,” Tsukishima says, finally putting his glasses back on.

The world comes back into focus, and now he can clearly see the genuine surprise on the senior agent’s face. “Two? And they managed to get the plates?”

“From Tendou Satori,” Tsukishima adds, and instantly regrets it, because Sugawara turns towards him again, comically widening his eyes.

“Two against Tendou Satori? I saw his file. He’s like the local Terminator! The Guess Monster of Jakarta.”

Tsukishima snorts. These nicknames the locals give everyone and their dog are pretty funny.

Tendou Satori was born in Nagoya in an unhappy family and spent his adolescent life bouncing from one juvenile detention center to another, and once he came of age spent a few years in the Gifu prison complex, only to then get released, rob a bank, blow up a Mazda factory and leave the country.

“To be specific, it was one against Tendou Satori.” Tsukishima shakes his head. He’s heard a lot, both in private conversations and the Academy, about how criminals handle their internal affairs, but he’s never seen anything like that. “I remember the Church roster: he wasn’t on the list, but he didn’t touch Inuoka Sou. Maybe a mercenary. I stole the case from him on his way out of the port.”

“As far as I know, the Church doesn’t attract mercenaries.” Sugawara thoughtfully drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “It’s a closed organization. They pick up young people, practically teenagers, and raise them on their terms, and they start working from the very bottom. You don’t get in there off the street. I doubt the bishop’s changed his principles now.”

“But if the search for stereoplates is a priority for them...?”

“We’ll have to discuss it with Kiyoko. You’re sure no one was watching you?”

Tsukishima tsks disappointedly under his breath. Back to the politics of absolute honesty: he wasn’t counting on the plates coming directly to his station. Everyone was sure the end point would be the airport, the safest and most suitable destination. Tsukishima was even a little confused when the show started right in front of his eyes. He knew how to work with a tail, but not in these circumstances. But in the end he did everything right.

This is what he ends up voicing.

“Okay,” Sugawara sighs, and then takes his hand off the wheel and pats him on the shoulder. “Sorry, Kei, no one thought that your very first mission would have you dodging bullets.”

Tsukishima nods and patiently waits for Sugawara to put his hand back on the wheel.

Wow.

Their hotel is at the end of Jalan Jaksa. An ideal shelter: nothing but shops, bars and inexpensive hotels all around, not to mention the biggest concentration of tourists in the city. It’s far past midnight, but this part of Jakarta lives its own life, flashing neon signage, digital advertisements and eye-catching shop windows. They drive past, and Tsukishima presses his forehead to the glass, staring at the town: not too different from New York or Chicago, which Tsukishima’s used to, and its palm-tree-lined alleys even remind him of his own Miami. And there’s still a particular Asian flair to it all.

Stands, vendors, hawkers, huge groups of drunk young people, women in colorful scarves, in hijabs, three-wheel cars, mopeds, chaotic intersections, tiny avenues with laundry on the balcony, signs in Chinese, Arabic, Hindi, Japanese — a giant hornet’s nest.

“Let’s go,” the senior agent shakes him gently, evidently assuming Tsukishima dozed off. And maybe he is a little out of it, because he doesn’t remember when they stopped next to the sidewalk in front of the entrance to the hotel. The sleepy fog in his mind brings irritation with it, and Tsukishima holds onto the case more tightly.

The last floor of the hotel is quiet and empty, and the only sound is the beep of the card reader when Sugawara presses his key card to it. The room is bright inside, and behind the decorative wall two heads, one red-haired, one blonde, can be seen leaning over the kitchen table. Tsukishima puts the case by his feet, but hits the mirrored closet by accident, and another head pops up over a tower of laptops.

“Tsukki! Deputy Special Agent in Charge Sugawara!”

“Koushi, Tadashi, call me Koushi, how many times do I have to tell you.”

“Mr. Sugawara!” Hinata slides into the corridor. “Tsukishima! So what happened?”

Tsukishima, still standing behind Sugawara’s back, rolls his eyes. Yamaguchi giggles into his fist, but when Hinata turns around, Tsukishima greets him with a friendly smile.

“Well, I brought him back alive,” Sugawara jokes. “And yeah, Kei did a great job: we have the plates!”

“Really?!” Hinata exclaims loudly, running to them, and Tsukishima swears if that guy comes any closer he can’t be held responsible for his actions.

Inside the room is pleasantly cool: the air conditioner is working at max capacity. The local climate and air make Tsukishima tired from the impossibly high humidity. He wants to change out of his sticky button-down and undershirt, so he goes to the bedroom through two wooden archways.

Two double-sized beds, cheap dressers with nightlights, a worn and unpleasantly yellow carpet, suitcases thrown in a pile by the wall. Most of their luggage is tech and weapons. If you tied the cables to all of their laptops together, you could reach the ground from the eleventh floor. But at least Tsukishima has a few spare shirts.

“Where’s the SAIC?” he asks, kneeling in front of his bag and yanking the zipper.

“She’s in the embassy.”

“Still?” Tsukishima raises an eyebrow. It’s almost two in the morning.

“Still.” Hinata shrugs his shoulders and flops onto the edge of the bed, throwing his arms behind his head. “There’s some problems with our way out of the country.”

Out of all of them even the miniature Yachi looks more like an adult person than Hinata.

“Tell me what happened!” Hinata demands, nearly jumping in place.

Tsukishima would rather clarify what kind of problems need to be solved at two in the morning. 

But he can’t get the “I don’t want to” off his face, because even Yachi’s laughing.

Agent Sugawara cackles, covering his mouth with one hand, slaps him on the back and says, “Come on, Kei. You have to write the report anyway.”

That doesn’t help, but Yamaguchi’s looking interested too, so Tsukishima reluctantly retells everything from the moment Tendou starts firing at the random Church guy’s car. Hinata’s practically squealing from envy and delight — unlike Tsukishima, he’s had some experience in the field, but in this situation he hasn’t even gotten to hold a weapon yet. Tsukishima would gladly trade roles with him.

But he couldn’t.

Partly because rumor has it that if Hinata’s holding a cannon, someone immediately falls down with a hole in their leg.

“Daaaaaayummmm!” Hinata exclaims. “How awesome! Damn, if I was there, I’d get that Tendou and—”

“And let him go, because you don’t have authority on Jakartan territory,” Tsukishima snickers, retrieving his spare shirt and standing up.

Sugawara, walking into the kitchen, shoots him a sharp look. Whatever happened back there, the suitcase is still next to Tsukishima. And noticing that, Tsukishima knows what’ll happen now.

“Tadashi,” Sugawara says sweetly, “let’s open the case and input the serial numbers of these plates into the register? And finally look at them. The ideal stereoplates of Ukai Ikkei.” Notes of impatience slide into his voice.

Hinata seems to be exploding with excitement. Tsukishima is dead certain Hinata’s incapable of telling a five dollar bill drawn with a marker from an original, much less “the ideal stereoplates of Ukai Ikkei.”

Not like Sugawara: He has a professional interest, coming off of ten years working with different types of forgeries and counterfeits. There’s a guy who could definitely appreciate a masterwork of currency forgery.

“With all due respect,” — Sugawara instantly gives Tsukishima a reproachful look, as if saying, “I already know you’re about to say something awful because you start all your insults with your due respect” — “But I have instructions from my direct superiors.”

“And my superiors are not you,” Tsukishima thinks in his head. He doesn’t even try to hide his displeasure with Sugawara’s requests.

“Kei,” Sugawara exhales loudly, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt, and looks thoughtful.

“Tsukishima!” Hinata squeals. “Show them!”

His voice alone causes migraines.

“You’re so stubborn,” Sugawara sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Kei, I remember you report directly to Kiyoko, and I understand this is your first mission. You’re worried, trying to do everything by the book, but believe my experience—”

He’s interrupted by a knock on the door. From the hallway a voice announces in English, “Room service!”

Whatever the press says, they’re not morons. At least, Agent Sugawara definitely isn’t.

“Anyone order anything?” His gaze is so penetrating, Tsukishima feels uneasy. Sugawara is absolutely not the simpleton he looks like at first glance.

Everyone shakes their heads.

“I’ll open, Hinata, cover,” Sugawara orders, but Hinata jumps up. 

“Let me.”

Sugawara weighs the suggestion for a fraction of a second, then nods and points at the door. Hinata, putting one hand behind his back, goes to open the door. Tsukishima moves the suitcase to the side and moves Yachi behind him, and Yamaguchi, who’s never held a weapon in his hands in his entire life, watches the proceedings from behind his chair, only the top of his head visible.

Hinata tugs on the handle and opens the door.

The hallway’s empty. In front of them is the door to room 1108 flanked by beige walls with dark panels.

And Tsukishima doesn’t like this. He wants to tell Hinata “Wait!” when he turns back around to them, frowns in surprise and says, “This doesn’t seem like a pra—”

And doesn’t finish. Someone tries to hit him on the head with a gun, but he dodges at the last moment. They still grab him, pull the gun out of the waistband of his pants and put it to his throat.

“Stop, don’t move, don’t breathe,” the man in the doorway advises them somberly. “Otherwise, well, you know.”

“Hands up!” someone rumbles lowly behind his back.

“Age—” Tsukishima begins quietly, not taking his eyes away from the muzzle pressed to Hinata’s carotid artery.

“Quiet!” Sugawara cuts him off and puts his hands up. “Do what you’re told.”

Hell. Tsukishima swallows. He wants to swear, but instead of that he, like Sugawara, raises both his arms up, and twists the gun on his index finger so it’s pointing at the ceiling. Yachi behind him does the same.

He understands perfectly well that besides him no one else could’ve brought a tail here with them.

“Well done,” the tank praises them in an everyday tone, holding Hinata in front of himself like a shield. “We had to wait a long time for you to lead us here, so our patience is kind of low right now. We don’t have to make each other’s lives harder. Lower the guns slowly, no sudden moves, and push them over here.”

Like they’re not familiar with this procedure.

They follow all the orders, like they’re copying from a textbook, and straighten up. Tsukishima side-eyes Yamaguchi, who’s still sitting with wide eyes, not moving.

A great continuation to the evening, just wonderful.

The man nods encouragingly. “Line up against the wall! Hands behind your head, legs spread! No nonsense!” 

Tsukishima presses his shoulderblades against the wall, feeling his thoughts race in his head. He’s got to think of something, fast.

The uninvited guest is far past thirty. He’s broad in the shoulders and definitely Japanese; his English is heavily accented. Powerful hands that could snap a neck in one move. He holds his weapon comfortably and confidently. 

He steps into a corner, leaving the doorway open. When two more people appear in the suite, it gets a little crowded. Kei notices in his peripheral vision that in the hotel hallway there’s still a burly man with a threatening face, square chin sporting a goatee, and long hair. He waits for his leader’s nod and shuts the door.

“Akihiko, grab the weapons,” the leader orders, and turns to Hinata. “And you, little one, no sudden movements.”

A skinny dude even shorter than Hinata, with a street rat aesthetic in the form of an unevenly colored streak in the front of his hair and a t-shirt with an incoherent Chinese slogan on it, bends over and gathers their guns. Another guy, a beanpole with a poker face, stands at the leader’s right hand, casually holding his gun in front of himself. And Tsukishima is suddenly hit by the desire to see that guy shoot himself in the foot. They could all use a laugh today.

“So,” the leader continues in English, “first question: where is the suitcase?”

“You’re not actually expecting us to tell you,” Sugawara responds, switching to Japanese. The leader raises his eyebrows in surprise, and then tries to answer, but Sugawara continues. He looks absolutely calm, shoves his bangs out of his eyes and says, “You’re that gang from Bojong Daishou Suguru sold the plates to for thirteen million euros, correct? Or should I say, the gang that did not get their plates and lost thirteen million?

The Japanese group freezes. In half a minute Sugawara surprised them twice. They clearly weren’t expecting him to know such specifics. The stringy one’s moody grumbling confirms Tsukishima’s train of thought. “How did you know? It’s not—”

“Masao,” the leader cuts him off, not taking his eyes off Sugawara. And then adds in a completely different tone, “Go check the bedroom.” 

“Yes, Shuichi-san.” He nods obediently.

A quiet, irritated tsking sound bursts from Tsukishima against his will. No plan has come to mind yet— he’s not used to thinking at gunpoint. Nevertheless he’s seeing and remembering every last detail.

“You’re well-informed,” the leader notices, once Masao’s hidden behind the wall.

Sugawara smiles slightly. “Yes, that’s one of my strengths.”

“Being well-informed?”

“Yes. And when I don’t know something, well, can you imagine, I can’t sleep from my intense curiosity and innate nosiness. So would you have some mercy, Shuichi-san, and tell me: where did a tiny gang, appearing on the island half a year ago, get thirteen million euros in cash?”

Sugawara’s babbling, stalling for time, but the question he poses really is interesting. They were discussing it on the flight over, while they were trying to figure out the balance of power in Jakarta currently, but didn’t come to any conclusions.

Anyway, this guy also knows how to fake a smile. “Saved up a bit,” he answers.

And then a voice from the room calls out, “Found it!” Masao appears in the archway. “And also they’ve got like an entire pile of weapons in there.”

“Well then, moving on to our second question. Would you be so kind as to tell us who you are, good sir?”

“They’ve also got a high-tech computer set-up,” the short one with the colored bangs whistles, heading over to the table at the end of the hallway.

Tsukishima presses his lips together and tries to think. If right now, while the leader’s distracted and Masao’s busy with the case, he jumps at Hinata and gets the gun... no, they’ll kill the ginger dumbass immediately — too close to the neck.

But he doesn’t finish his thought: in the next second, Hinata skillfully twists, hits the leader with an elbow to his solar plexus, and steals his gun. There’s a shot. 

Tsukishima doesn’t immediately understand what happened, frantically looks around for where the bullet went. Meanwhile Sugawara managers to grab the gun from the guard and elbows the short one in the face. A shoot-out starts.

“Duck!” Sugawara barks, hiding behind the armoire. Yamaguchi, white as a sheet, scrambles behind the armchair, Tsukishima dives down, yanking Yachi with him, find someone else’s Walther on the floor and starts shooting at the thug’s legs. Hinata’s already got one of them in the hip, and now the man is bleeding all over the rug by the door. From behind the doorjamb the burly bearded guy is covering his friends with more gunfire. Tsukishima squints, stretches both his hands out and presses the trigger: the bearded guy hides, scuffling.

“We’re leaving,” the leader orders, and before stepping behind the threshold with everyone else, sends a few shots into the corner where Sugawara’s standing. “Nishinoya, cover!”

“Kei, cover!” Sugawara commands in turn. “Hinata, with me!”

Tsukishima and Hinata nod almost in sync, jumping up and trying to shoot the head peeking out from behind the door to clear a path out of the suite. Masao’s managed to throw the suitcase right into the arms of the big one. They work well together, like a football team.

Sugawara and Hinata chase after them. For what reason Tsukishima decides to follow, he doesn’t even know himself. It’s clear they won’t make it— the gangsters have almost gotten away already, and even three of them don’t stand a chance against those four. Sugawara probably understands this too. They run to the end of the hallway and separate at the elevator. Sugawara and Tsukishima continue to follow the thieves down the right stairwell, Tsukishima takes the left.

No chance of success, but he still runs around, risking breaking his legs in the process. The signs labeling the floor number blur together. On the fourth floor he missteps and almost goes tumbling, on the third he regrets getting mixed up in all this for the hundredth time, on the second he hears gunfire in the distance. And breaking into the lobby on the ground floor, sees people’s backs and profoundly hopes that he was just imagining the gunfire on the second. Sugawara and Hinata are nowhere to be seen.

Tsukishima knocks over nocturnal hotel guests, jumps over a luggage cart, straightens his glasses, and rushes out onto the street. The last of the thieves, NIshinoya, is being pulled into a pickup slowly gathering speed. Pulling away, the truck flares its side lights, which melt, like red zigzags, into the puddles on the street.

“Damn,” Tsukishima swears, and grinds his teeth.

When everyone returns, the suite looks like nothing happened. Even the window survived. The bullet holes add to the shoddy interior design.

“Agent Sugawara, sir,” Tsukishima looks up at Sugawara. “I apologize for the situation. This was entirely my fault. They probably had the same strategy as us, and someone tailed us from the port.”

He’s angry because he hates acknowledging his own incompetence.

“Kei.” Sugawara slaps him on the shoulder. “You just got out of the Academy six months ago. You’re our most promising rookie in economics and finance. And no one’s expecting you to have superspy instincts.”

“I don’t think management’s going to care about that,” Hinata points out dejectedly. Someone’s stray bullet grazed his shoulder — nothing serious, just a scratch, but Yachi’s cut his t-shirt sleeve apart and is carefully washing the wound.

“You guys definitely don’t need to worry about management,” Sugawara declares confidently, hands on his hips. “I’ll deal with that myself. We should worry about what we’re going to report to Kiyoko, though...”

A groan rolls across the room. Tsukishima stays silent, but only out of pride.

The topic is very relevant, so they spend a good ten minutes discussing the possible reactions of their supervisory Agent Shimizu. Even Sugawara, on friendly terms with her, predicts a “visibly disappointed facial expression” and complains about the lack of mini-bar.

And when they finally move on to the question of what to do next, there’s a sudden knock on the door.

“Room service!” A low voice sings.

Sugawara looks at the door like it just announced that it’s sick of this and is resigning from being a door. This doesn’t look like a fun prank at all.

“They’re not serious,” Sugawara mumbles, loading a fresh cartridge. “Tadashi, Hitoka, go behind the armoire.”

“Who’s ‘they?’” Tsukishima asks, standing behind the archway into the bedroom and raising his gun. 

Sugawara shakes his head. “Guess we’ll find out. Everyone quiet.”

Tsukishima gloomily looks for the upside. At the very least, if it’s someone trying to steal the suitcase again, that someone won’t get anything out of it. The only things left to take here are the lives of some unfortunate warriors against counterfeiting.

Sugawara turns the lock, leans back against the wall and kicks the door open.

“Ouch, right on the nose, dude!” The low voice now sounds very high. “That hurt!”

“Very unpleasant.” A second voice, also male. “You got beat up by a door.”

The absolutely gobsmacked look on Sugawara’s face is priceless.

“How was I supposed to know this door opened outwards!”

“Everyone knows! Did no one tell you?”

“Stop making fun of me!”

“Okay, then, let’s start shooting.”

And they do. At least someone here’s true to their words. Now if they’d shot at each other, that would’ve been ideal. The bullets fly through the doorway and finally shatter the lone window. Their new guests, with a typically local flair of buffoonery, amoral hairstyles and guns, break into the room in perfect sync. Sugawara takes a few shots and dives behind the couch. Tsukishima hides behind the doorjamb and fires from his gun, when the guy nearer to him is level with his hideaway. He misses. His hands are revoltingly shaky, his palms are soaking, the tight trigger is digging into his finger. Tsukishima does the finances, Tsukishima is not built for fieldwork. Behind him a utopian landscape painting falls off the wall.

The dude in a ridiculous Deadpool t-shirt quickly turns around and aims two guns at him. Tsukishima backs away, trying to figure out what to hide behind, and dives in between the two beds, shooting at the thug’s feet and not letting him come closer.

Behind the lattice partition is the sound of glass breaking and loud swearing, but no one’s shooting. Sugawara’s good at hand-to-hand combat. Tsukishima hears a crunch and dull hitting noises, sees rapidly moving silhouettes. They fall a few times, bend around the partition and start again. Sugawara sweeps, his opponent jumps and hits him in the jaw. Watching them, Tsukishima loses a few seconds while the other foe comes closer to him, and finally recognizes him.

“Sir,” he yells at Sugawara. “It’s him! That’s the guy I stole the suitcase from in the port!”

Sugawara freezes. Tsukishima’s still lying there, propped up on his elbows, in the space between the two beds, and right above him is a mountain of muscles holding two guns.

“Bo, hold it!” the guy from the port suddenly blurts out, raising his chin and staring at Tsukishima. He has an insane hairstyle and a Spiderman t-shirt, evidently a pair with the Deadpool shirt.

Sugawara’s still standing, moving the man’s hands behind his back and forcing him to bend to the floor. Tsukishima would’ve been happy for the team in the black suits, but the team in the stupid t-shirts also has an advantage, and that advantage is— himself, lying on the floor at gunpoint.

“Huh? What?” The jock with the Deadpool t-shirt asks.

“It’s him!” the messy-haired one exclaims, trying to straighten up and then bending over again from joint pain. “The leggy blond from the port!”

Tsukishima would protest, but he is still being held at gunpoint.

“I thought that was a chick.” Bo scratches his head. “Nah, I mean he totally fights like a chick. Let’s trade, it looks like he only knows how to lie around. I need a more serious opponent!”

“Speaking of which, Bo.”

“What?”

“Uh... we’re surrendering,” Messy Hair blurts out.

Everyone else in the room is as surprised as Bo. Tsukishima thinks he’s hearing things.

“What? Dude, you thi—”

“I said, we’re surrendering.” 

What’s going on here?

“We’re definitely surrendering?”

“For sure, bro.” Messy Hair lifts his head and looks over his shoulder at Sugawara. “So yeah, we’re surrendering. Helpless and ready to suffer.”

Tsukishima pulls his legs closer and stands up slowly. Just as slowly as the jock Bo puts his cannon away. They stare at each other, and the thought that there’s a trap here and they’re all going to get killed won’t leave Tsukishima’s head.

“Can the blondie tie me up personally?” Tsukishima’s distracted by Messy Hair’s words. He wants to think he’s talking about Yachi, but Yachi and Yamaguchi are both sitting in the far corner and they’re not even visible from here.

“No messing around,” Sugawara says in a commanding voice. “Tadashi, handcuffs.”

The wounded Hinata comes to their aid, putting handcuffs on the jock.

Unbelievable, but fact: these two are surrendering. Tsukishima cannot understand why, and he doesn’t like it.

They seat the unwanted guests back to back and cuff them. Also, Tsukishima strongly advises Sugawara put a bag on Messy Hair’s head.

“Your words, they cut like knives.” The man stretches his legs out and stares brazenly at Tsukishima.

He’s at least six feet tall, suntanned, lankier than his partner, but Tsukishima still wouldn’t want to get caught in a fight with him. His facial features are somewhat crude, high brow, wide cheekbones and upturned eyes. Although all of it’s decorated with fresh cuts and bruises. On his cheek, despite the tan, a bruise is swelling up. And still, he raises his head and rudely leans back in his chair, like he’s in a bar about to pick someone up instead of being held captive.

Tsukishima isn’t sure he’s capable of feeling awkwardness, but when some guy decides in front of your colleagues that you’re going to be the girl they’ll flirt with to piss everyone off, that’s just too much. At least Sugawara is too tolerant, Yachi too shy, Hinata too close, and Yamaguchi too Yamaguchi, and all of them are collectively ignoring this whole circus. To Tsukishima it still seems a bit like they threw him to the wolves.

“What a pity.” Tsukishima pointedly wrinkles his nose, checks the cuffs again, and walks to the side.

Sugawara sits on the bedside table, Yamaguchi on the farthest chair, and Hinata circles the prisoners. Tsukishima leans against the armrest of the couch, and the two heroes of the day are behaving like at any moment they can just stand up and walk away.

“Ts-Tsukishima,” Yachi coughs, looking at them nervously. She doesn’t like them, and Tsukishima’s in full agreement. “Here.”

Tsukishima takes the gun — not standard-issue, probably left here by one of their Japanese guests, and shoves it into the holster. It’s possible Yachi’s right. Who knows what these two could do, if they’d already decided to surrender.

“Thank you.” He nods.

“I’ll go help Yamaguchi.” She smiles weakly and walks around the couch to the kitchen, where most of their bulletproof laptops have been relocated.

“So, let’s begin,” Sugawara says. The clock says three in the morning, perfect time for an interrogation. “Who are you?”

“Oh, who are you?” Bo echoes, trying to make some kind of hand gesture and instead clanging his handcuffs against his partner’s.

“We asked first!” Hinata protests. Solid argument.

If Tsukishima rolls his eyes every time he feels the urge to do so, he’ll be cross-eyed by the end of this mission.

“Give me a second, Bo... I think I see it...” Messy Hair says gravely.

“Do you really?” Bo asks.

“Yes, I see... A flag... Stars... A black president...”

Tsukishima looks at Yamaguchi, Yamaguchi at Tsukishima. They understand each other without words.

“The States! But how did you guess?” Bo exclaims, in a deliberately shocked tone.

“I’ll tell you.” Messy Hair calmly throws one leg over the other and shuffles to be more comfortable. Tsukishima imagines how much his hands ache by now and gloats internally. “Hear how they say their ‘R’s?”

The other one thinks for a second, and then nods fervently. “Americans, definitely.”

“Americans. Or Europeans.”

“No-no-no.” Bo shakes his head. “The little one’s accent is a hundred percent Illinois. I know, bro.”

“You were in Illinois?” Messy Hair looks back at his partner with an expression like he’s about to accuse him of betrayal. “When did you have time for that?”

He answers readily. “Like... five years ago. And in New York I did time with five guys from Chicago and Aurora.”

“Watch out, we got a badass over here,” his buddy commentates.

“They had some kind of gang, I can’t remember, “Smash” or “Crash” or something else cool. And your blondie over here” — he nods at Tsukishima — “is as Southern as the day is long.”

“Southern gals are my weakness. No matter how they act, they always end up super hot... Ahem, so.” Messy Hair pretends to interrupt himself. “So that one might be a detective, but he’s obviously not from CSI: Miami.” He’s not planning on switching to a serious tone anytime soon. His speech is still lazy and mocking. “Nice equipment, but chasing after the sacred tablets — not CIA, CIA’s got nothing to do here. I’m betting on the S. S...”

Yachi in the kitchen gasps, and Tsukishima puts a hand on his forehead and sees a self-satisfied smile spread across the face of that prick.

“They’re the counterfeit experts in our lovely democratic United States.”

Sugawara, tugging at a button on his shirt, smiles that smile he uses before a beatdown and then drags over a chair and sits backwards on it.

“Well then, let’s get acquainted. Authorized specialist for uncovering counterfeit currency for the United States Secret Service.” He smiles, tilting his head, and it would be friendly if he wasn’t also holding a gun. “Deputy Special Agent in Charge, Koushi Sugawara. Now it’s your turn.”

“First tell me what that cutie over there’s called.” Shaggy hair jerks his head in the direction of Tsukishima.

“That’s unnecessary,” Tsukishima points out.

“Calm down, kitten.” Messy hair squints. Yachi blushes, Yamaguchi’s covering his face with his hands— trying not to laugh, traitor. And on top of that, a sympathetic glance from Sugawara and Hinata with his mouth hanging open in shock.

“I strongly request that you stop this.” Tsukishima frowns and rubs his wrist, which was injured in the scuffle.

“You’re so young, how old are you? Twenty and a bit?” Messy Hair starts. If that’s going to be followed by another deep analysis, Tsukishima’s just going to walk out. “You’re a bad shot, not great at crawling under the bed, totally useless in a fight. So you’re a finance specialist, and if your finance-related abilities are inversely proportional to your fighting abilities, you’re the best finance specialist I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“And why can’t my bad aim be a trick to distract you from my impressive intellectual capabilities?” Tsukishima demands in sheer stubbornness, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, your good looks are obvious.” Messy Hair smiles. “But I’m not sure about your intellectual capabilities yet.”

And that’s where Tsukishima freezes, dumbfounded. With every second of the silence his eyebrows rise higher and higher. He’s used to trading joking insults and being skeptical of the intelligence of everyone around him, but right now he doesn’t understand if this dude is playing with him or trying to put him down? He’s practically shaking from rage.

“The girl is apparently... I.T.?” Messy Hair continues like nothing happened. Tsukishima tries counting to ten. “Judging by your faces, nope. Okay, hmmm, maybe an interpreter or something? What, still no? Ugh, fine. So then, freckles is the I.T. guy. The redhead— well, everything’s obvious with that one. Where’s your leader?”

Sugawara’s eyebrow twitches. Hinata’s face, with whom “everything’s obvious,” becomes extremely expressive. Messy Hair grins smugly. Only thing left to do is hope that at some point he’ll take his own breath away with how cool he is and suffocate.

“Why did you decide there’s someone else?” Sugawara makes an expressionless face.

“You serious?” Messy Hair snorts.

His quieter friend inserts: “Bro, let me do it. Because they’ve already got that you’re cool, but I’m also cool, and they don’t know that yet.”

If you’re both so cool, why are you sitting here in handcuffs?

“Little blondie” — a nod in Yachi’s direction — “is like super small. And uncertain. If she’s a field agent, she has no experience. Big blondie” — nod at Tsukishima — “is useless in a fight. I like the redhead, and freckles is I. T. You, Mr. Agent, are good at waving your fists, is that wushu or what? Even if redhead’s not a bad fighter either, two fighters for an operation this serious, even if you’re the cream of the crop, is not enough. There’s gotta be someone else. And that someone else is your big boss, because in these situations they put a field agent in charge of the group and not a detective in your area of expertise or whatever you said you were, I forgot, sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

“No harm done.” Tsukishima can see Sugawara wincing, covering his expression with one hand, but when he looks up again he’s smiling politely once more. “And now let’s talk about you two.”

“Oh, nah,” says the jock who just proved himself to also be cool.

“What about us? We’re just, you know, low-caliber thugs, nothing special.” Messy hair grins.

“Criminal lackeys.”

“The absolute bottom of the criminal social hierarchy.”

“You don’t want to, understandable.” Sugawara smiles politely and unpleasantly, not taking his eyes off them. The hand holding the gun is on the back of his chair. “Tadashi, check the database for Illinois-based gangs that landed in New York between ‘10 and ‘12.”

“Cross-reference with “Bo”?” Yamaguchi clarifies.

Judging by the looks on those guys’ faces, something’s not going according to their plan.

“Oh, you’re not stupid.” He says it like he’s thrown mud at them. Smartass. “Secret Service doesn’t hire idiots, I guess? And look, even picked ethnic Japanese kids on purpose, knowing Jakarta’s full of them.”

No matter how annoying Messy Hair is, he guessed again: every participant in this operation was yanked off the nearest base to Indonesia as a matter of urgency.

“The light one’s, honestly, only kind of Japanese-looking, but there’s some resemblance.”

The light one.

“Our agent is bothering you so much,” Sugawara states, no question in his voice. Tsukishima’s grateful, but he thinks it’s all useless because evidently Messy Hair doesn’t know how to stop.

“Look at those legs,” the prisoner drawls with satisfaction, and Tsukishima wants to hide them from his gaze, “how can anyone not be bothered by that? How can anyone stand it?”

Either this guy has a very bad sense of humor, or it’s so good it wraps right back around to very bad. Tsukishima still hasn’t decided. He’s winking at Tsukishima. Tsukishima doesn’t so much as blink. Stands up from the armrest and, without letting the gun out of his hands, walks further away from the bedroom towards Yamaguchi and Yachi. Yamaguchi looks up at him sympathetically. 

On his laptop screen windows open and close at astonishing speeds, with similarities being highlighted and some kind of code markings appearing and reappearing. Database of Rikers inmates, Tsukishima sees. He’s heard of Rikers a few times, mostly in discussions of violence against prisoners. It’s a prison like any other, except on an island in the middle of the Hudson.

The program finds Yamaguchi a few dozen inmates: apparently, each of them at different times was in with various cutthroats from Illinois. He keeps working manually, and Tsukishima with vague interest observes the filtering process, only looking at the photos. One’s Latino, one’s missing an eye, one’s too old, one’s too young, and this one— oh.

“Oh,” Yamaguchi says quietly.

“Find anything?” Sugawara turns towards them without leaving the prisoners unattended.

“Find anything?” Hinata jumps up behind them, slides between the wall and Yamaguchi’s chair and covers the monitor with his head.

“Hinata,” Sugawara says, voice tired, “is there anything?”

Tsukishima nods, looking at the screen. Portrait photos, profile and forward-facing, compilation from several sources, including Interpol’s wanted database and his file from the Riker’s archive. He scans the lines of text quickly. 

Sugawara asks, “Kei, read it out loud.”

And he reads from the top. “Bokuto Koutarou, thirty four years old, born in Tokyo on September 20th, 1982. Finished high school...” he stops in surprise and raises his eyebrows. Okay fine, maybe he jumped to conclusions a bit and appearances can be deceiving, because...

“Kei?” Sugawara asks cautiously.

Tsukishima slowly reads, “Finished high school, instead of university went into the National Defense Academy and began working as a contractor.”

“What? Military?” Sugawara blurts out.

“In 2000 began working in the Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force on Maizuru naval base in Escort Squadron 3, on the destroyer-helicopter carrier ‘Kurama’. By 2007 he’d reached the rank of Lieutenant... At age twenty-five,” Tsukishima adds, slightly crestfallen. It sounds either ridiculous or incredible.

“Wait, in seven years?”

“There’s a file attached, one second...”

“I can tell you everything myself!” Bokuto interrupts, loud and upset.

“Be quiet,” Sugawara shushes him almost politely.

“There’s no information here about service to the country... But it says that from ‘02 to ‘07 he served in Afghanistan.” Tsukishima goes quiet. He feels a little shaky, and he glances through the passageway to the guys in the chairs. Then goes back to reading. “And when he returned to Japan he was promoted to Captain.”

“But according to the official information, the Japanese self-defense forces only offered some support, supplying the warfront with fresh water and fuel,” Yamaguchi says, looking up questioningly. Tsukishima can’t answer him, but Sugawara’s thoughtfully tapping his fingers against his chin, not looking away from Bokuto. Bokuto’s pressing his lips together, but seems relaxed otherwise.

“Jumping over so many ranks by performing humanitarian aid? Well, well.”

Tsukishima tries to imagine Afghanistan: it’s all very far away from his world of numbers and broken curves on stock market charts. He frowns at the subtext creeping into Sugawara’s words.

“What were you really doing in Afghanistan, Bokuto Koutarou?” Sugawara asks. “Anything else in there?”

“Yeah. In May ‘07 he officially deserted, not serving to the end of the three year term specified in his contract. If we believe the given information, he never went back to Japan, but showed up in a few other countries.”

“Which ones?”

Tsukishima scrolls skeptically for a few seconds, then sighs. He has a bad feeling about this, but carefully tries to hide it. “I’ll be reading until tomorrow, sir. There’s fifty eight countries.”

“How many?”

“How many?”

“ _ How many?! _ ”

Messy Hair cackles delightedly like it’s all his doing.

“He’s wanted in fifty eight countries,” Tsukishima repeats, trying not to think about the fact that he’s in the same building as this guy. “Robbery, suspicions of terrorist activity, participating in revolutionary uprisings, piracy, assassinations, working for criminal cartels... He’s a mercenary. Did time once, in ‘09, at Rikers, as it turned out later under a false name, escaped in ‘10.”

“From Rikers?” Sugawara’s surprised.

“Yes, one sec... Judging by the investigation, swam across the channel and climbed into the cargo hold of a plane flying out of La Guardia.”

“Pretty cool, right?” Bokuto smirks. Tsukishima tears his eyes away from the screen and looks at him again. He seems like an idiot, but an idiot doesn’t get to Captain at twenty-seven and can’t run from the law this expertly.

“You’re full of surprises,” Tsukishima allows.

Bokuto beams. “Yeaaah, that I am!”

“Fine, whatever, did we find anything about that one?” Sugawara nods in the direction of Messy Hair.

“Well.” Tsukishima turns back to the computer. “This says that Bokuto Koutarou is the leader of his own unnamed group. The members are: Yukie Shirofuku, thirty one years old, born to Japanese parents in the Philippines. But he doesn’t look like her.” Tsukishima glances over his shoulder ironically, “and Konoha Akinori, thirty four, also a Japanese military man, senior lieutenant in their army. Judging by the photo, not him.”

“Search his connections,” says Sugawara, “look for intersecting activities.”

Searching through all of Bokuto’s connections is a job for several weeks, if they’re going to dig through everyone he did time with, helped escape or escaped from.

“Well, he’s not as famous as I am,” Bokuto concludes sympathetically.

Messy Hair glares at him, trying his best to turn around.

“Hey, I actually—!”

“Well?” Tsukishima raises his eyebrows mockingly.

Messy Hair blows his absurd bangs away from his face, pursing his lips unhappily, and then says, “Come here.” And smiles boldly. “I’ll whisper it in your ear.”

Tsukishima’s starting to get a tension headache. If this guy with the awful hairstyle doesn’t end up being the son of some president, Tsukishima will immediately shoot him through the foot.

“Stop looking at me like that, I’m getting goosebu—”

There’s a loud knock on the door.

“Goosebumps,” Messy Hair finishes, blinking quickly and watching the entrance.

“Room service!” someone declares.

In a second the stupidity of the situation reaches everyone. Bokuto tries to hold in his laughter, pressing his chin to his chest, and Messy Hair turns his head to one side and snickers. Sugawara’s expression reads: Great joke, kids. 

“Let’s not open it,” Yachi suggests suddenly.

Messy Hair shakes his head disapprovingly. “Well no, kiddo, that’s rude.” He thinks for a second. “Who hasn’t opened the door yet here? You should take turns!”

“Nah, rock paper scissors!” Bokuto suggests.

“Room service! Open up!” 

Tsukishima grabs his gun. Either the people in this city have a problem with their imagination, or a complex about cleaning rooms.

But they don’t have time to open up because in the next second bullets shatter the electronic lock into pieces.

“The maids in this hotel are so impatient,” Messy Hair snarks, while the rest of them dive into different directions.

A figure appears in the doorway and the space fills up with gunshots. Tsukishima jerks sideways, can’t stay on his feet and falls on the floor. Hinata saves him, jumping towards the archway and adding his singular pistol shots into the mix of automatic gunfire. Since the automatics keep stopping and Tsukishima hears some choice cursing coming through, Hinata’s doing pretty well. Unsurprising, he was the best at target practice. Unlike Tsukishima, who hit six out of ten and zero in the head.

“Who the hell are these guys?” Hinata yells, reloading. There’s another silhouette visible in the mirror of the walk-in closet. 

Hinata’s answered by Sugawara, hiding behind the armchair, and Messy Hair. “Cartel!” they bark in unison. Tsukishima startles at this, looks back at the prisoners and then crawls forward to help Hinata.

“Hey guys, maybe let us go? Guys?” Messy Hair suggests. “Because if you lose this battle they’ll kill us too!” Seeing that no one’s paying attention to him, he tries again. “We could help?”

The blond guy with the automatic fires off a round that almost turns Tsukishima into a sieve. He manages to fall backwards at the last minute and hisses irritably, “You could shut up!”

“Ow,” says Messy Hair.

“He’s mad,” Bokuto explains. “You made him mad, bro.”

What a circus. Are they completely unphased by this situation?

The firing quiets. Tsukishima sees Sugawara, pressed against the wall and tensely reloading his weapon. If they’d known this was what room service is like here they’d have grabbed a machine gun.

“Did you hit anyone?” They hear from behind the wall. And suddenly Messy Hair looks troubled. He frowns slightly, staring determinedly at the floor like he’s trying to listen in.

“No,” a different voice answers coldly.

“Are y’all acrobats over there or what?” The first voice grumbles.

Tsukishima manages to sit down, but at that moment the gunfire starts again. Hinata blocks the view, so Tsukishima moves back so he can stand up safely. And hears how behind him Bokuto says, in a strange voice, “That sounded like Semi, bro.”

“Shit,” Messy Hair spits in response.

“Shit,” Bokuto confirms.

“Shit!”

“Shit!!”

“Sh—”

“We got it!” Tsukishima interrupts, turning around angrily— and ending up right between the messy haired prisoner’s spread knees. Who, instantly distracted from his exclamations, smirks suggestively, looking down at Tsukishima. It’s a very unpleasant smirk.

“Maybe he’s not that mad,” Bokuto snorts, and Tsukishima feels that a lack of target practice won’t hinder his ability to shoot someone in the kneecaps.

“Pretty boy, normally I’m very much for this,” Messy Hair notes, wiggling his eyebrows. Tsukishima’s not a teenager to blush at this, but he’s getting exhausted from the necessity of keeping a straight face in front of this moron who thinks he’s very clever. “But right now isn’t really a good time. How about you shoot Semi first?”

“That would be a lot easier if I shoot you first.” Tsukishima smiles in response, leaning the hand holding the gun onto Messy Hair’s knee and standing up in one movement. “Especially since with you, specifically, there will never be a good time.”

“You’re so mean.” Messy Hair keeps laughing.

Bokuto snickers. “One-zero.”

“Stop!” Sugawara shouts through the automatic gunfire. “Stop! White flag! Negotiations!”

The firing stops. The enemy’s confusion is almost palpable through the wall. “Are you surrendering?” a voice clarifies, probably, Tsukishima assumes, the aforementioned Semi.

Messy Hair desperately shakes his head and whispers, “No-no-no-no-no!! You shouldn’t surrender to Semi! Tell your boss you can’t!”

“Why?” Tsukishima blurts.

“He’ll kill me!” Messy Hair mouths.

Interesting, Tsukishima thinks. Maybe if they give him to the Cartel they’ll go away?

Meanwhile Sugawara continues. “No.” But before they continue, adds: “And I have bad news.”

“What bad news?” Semi’s tone darkens.

“You can leave.” Sugawara’s voice sounds no less stern. “We don’t have the stereoplates anymore, anyway.”

“And why should we believe you?” Semi snorts. “We don’t even know who you are.”

“They’re clearly lying!” someone’s high voice declares, and then someone else shushes him.

Messy Hair’s facial expression suddenly changes. Bokuto’s too.

“We’re not lying!” Hinata exclaims. “Those scumbags from the Japanese gang showed up” — Tsukishima sees Sugawara silently gesturing — “shot at us and to— Oh.”

“It’s a trick!” The high voice continues. He wouldn’t be saying that if he could see Sugawara’s face.

Bokuto frowns thoughtfully and looks straight ahead.

“Hey,” Messy Hair asks surprisingly loudly. “Is that the Future Head of the Cartel over there?” Tsukishima hides his face in his hand. At the same he hears “Do you seriously introduce yourself to everyone like that, Goshiki?!” and absolutely does not understand what is going on here. “Goshiki Tsuto-whatever? How are you over there, kid, alive and well?”

The tense silence stretches across the whole suite for several seconds.

“Hey,” Semi says slowly in turn. “You don’t happen to have Kuroo Tetsurou over there?”

“No,” Bokuto answers immediately. “We don’t know any Kuroo Tetsurous.”

“And Bokuto Koutarou,” their conversational partner concludes. Tsukishima takes his palm away from his face, looks at Kuroo like he’s the stupidest person in the city, but doesn’t interrupt. Sugawara either. Apparently they’re all interested in what’s going on here.

“Sorry I didn’t shoot him,” Future Head apologizes. “But he played dirty.”

“Listen,” Bokuto asks darkly. “Is Goshiki-Future-Head the little dark one with the dumb bowl cut?”

There’s another pause.

“I don’t have a dumb haircut!” Goshiki-Future-Head yells at him through the wall.

“You listen to me!” Bokuto yells in response, stretching his powerful neck, and Tsukishima blinks in surprise. Kuroo rolls his eyes, as if saying everything’s fine, and then tries to reach his friend with his foot. But Bokuto ignores him. “Give me back my diamonds! Or I’ll get you, you hear?!”

“What is happening here,” Semi hisses. “Goshiki! You ran into Bokuto Koutarou? How?!”

“Is it true, what he did?” Hinata turns to Kuroo and Bokuto, and this is the first time Tsukishima is happy Hinata opened his mouth.

He himself is watching them intently, and then Kuroo turns to Bokuto.

“Bro, you got robbed by Goshiki Tsutomu?! But he’s like twelve! Dude!”

“I’m twenty five!”

“Shut up, Goshiki! What were you saying, negotiations?” Semi asks. “I agree, if you rein in Bokuto!”

“Come in,” Sugawara agrees. “He’s tied up. How many of you are there?”

“Three,” Semi answers after a moment.

“Okay.” Sugawara tenses. “We don’t need problems with the Cartel, and we won’t shoot, but no funny business!”

Semi raises his hands, showing he put his weapons away, and walks into the middle of the hallway. A tall, fairly attractive and even intelligent-looking young man. He’s neatly dressed, he’s wearing a nice suit, and this is enough for Tsukishima to take his side right now. Unfortunate that their interests have to cross on the stereoplates. Tsukishima would’ve loved to play against Kuroo with him. Maybe only for that reason.

“Oh, so I guess Goshiki wasn’t lying.” Semi clicks his tongue, satisfied.

“Well yeah, why should he,” Kuroo drawls confidently, like he just popped in for some tea. “It’s really me.”

“Oh no, I believed that immediately.” Semi waves him off. “You’re too annoying not to just die quietly somewhere in Somalia. I didn’t believe that your hairstyle could get even worse than it used to be.”

Tsukishima can’t hold back a nervous laugh, and Kuroo’s practically choking from indignation. “Et tu, Brute? I thought we were bonding!”

“Listen,” Tsukishima remembers his recent idea instead of answering. “Would you like to take him?”

“Am I not your favorite prisoner?” Kuroo panics. “You should take care of me.”

Sugawara makes a warning expression, but Tsukishima continues. “We don’t have the plates, we don’t have any information, but we do have these two.” He reminds himself of a car salesman. “Exclusive offer.”

“No exclusive offers,” Sugawara snaps.

Semi looks at him, smart and a little condescending. “I’ve got my own issues with that one.” He nods at Kuroo. “If you don’t have anything to share, we’ll leave, but what do you need him for? Trust me, from this guy there’s more problems than positives. Every third man in Jakarta wants to murder him.”

And Tsukishima totally understands why. But this whole thing looks like they’re planning to keep Kuroo in the role of a fairly problematic house pet.

“Hey, maybe without the depressing statistic!” Kuroo chimes in.

“Sure,” Semi agrees, raises his arm and shoots straight at him.

Tsukishima was expecting something like this from the start, so he successfully kicks both of the chairs. Kuroo and Bokuto crash onto the floor.

Everyone scatters again. Semi drops behind the couch and is replaced by a thin blond man pouring rounds from an automatic on them, and Goshiki backing him up with two pistols.

That’s it, Tsukishima thinks, shoving Kuroo and Bokuto closer to the bed. I didn’t sign up for this, Tsukishima thinks, and grabs the gun Hinata throws to him.

And at that moment someone’s phone rings.

Semi hollers, “Stop!” and Sugawara makes a sign for everyone to stop. On one hand, at this rate Tsukishima will never prove to Kuroo he knows how to shoot, and on the other hand, thank God for that.

“We’ve already got the plates?” Semi asks into the phone, perplexed.

Tsukishima, confused, glances at Kuroo, the closest person, but instantly looks over to Sugawara, who seems entirely lost.

And then everything starts happening way too quickly. The Cartel men bow politely and walk away, even closing the door behind them — how well-mannered! Goshiki tries to yell something after them, but he’s quickly shushed.

It’s quiet in the suite again. Tsukishima looks around, trying to absorb the fact that he’s still alive. And that’s abnormal — everything that’s happening here is abnormal!

“You saved me,” says a voice behind him.

And why did he even open his mouth? Tsukishima really does not want to turn his face towards Kuroo, but something inside of him insists that he’ll lose if he doesn’t. He has to turn on his heels, straighten his shoulders and look down at Kuroo. Kuroo exudes smugness like radiation.

“I knew you liked me at least a little bit!”

Tsukishima feels hot under his ribs from rage, and he can barely restrain himself from grinding his teeth, but instead he smiles gently and answers in a thoughtful voice, “Maybe I just wanted to kill you personally?”

“That’s pretty good too.” Kuroo nods approvingly, sticking his lower lip out. “Very art house romance drama.”

“Tragedy,” Tsukishima corrects him politely. “If one of the protagonists dies during the story, it’s called a tragedy.”

Kuroo smirks. “So I’m one of the protagonists?”

“The one who dies,” Tsukishima reminds him, smiling. It’s so difficult, with him.

“Stop flirting.” Sugawara suddenly rolls his eyes, and Tsukishima remembers they’re not alone in this room “We have to—”

And at the moment there’s a knock on the door.

“Room service!” A hoarse, deep voice announces.

“Nope.” Sugawara shakes his head, looking slightly hysterically at the door. “This isn’t even funny anymore.”

“It stopped being funny three room services ago,” Tsukishima points out, hurriedly grabbing a fresh magazine off the bed.

This is going to be one of the important rules of Jakarta: never expect anything good from room service.

“Well, guys, it was great meeting you,” Kuroo sighs. Bokuto chuckles behind him. “There’s our ride.”

And he stands up, stretching his arms. The handcuffs are gone. Son of a bitch.

Tsukishima aims at him without hesitation, but there’s a crash and yet another group of guests who need something from them break into their hotel room.

Tsukishima mechanically turns towards them, and immediately understands what a mistake he made. His arm is locked and pushed towards him, with his own gun aimed under his chin.

“You’re so skinny,” Kuroo clicks his tongue disapprovingly, grabbing his wrist tighter when Tsukishima tries to break out of it. His twisted tendons burn with pain, and Kuroo huffs a self-satisfied breath in his ear. “Next time I’ll bring candy.”

Tsukishima grits his teeth so hard they hurt.

The room suddenly floods with noise; Bokuto, like Kuroo, easily gets rid of his cuffs and throws Hinata over a bed, stealing his weapon. Sugawara’s shooting from around a corner, and in front of Tsukishima a short dude in a church cassock and two Berettas appears out of nowhere.

“Are you a moron?” asks the pseudopriest and drug dealer. Yaku Morisuke, Tsukishima’s memory thoughtfully brings up excerpts from the profiles he’d studied. One of the main gears in the mechanism of Nekomata Yasufumi, a carefully raised attack dog. He looks a lot younger than he is, but judging by his file, people who fall for his appearance tend to pay for it later.

But what really impresses Tsukishima is how Yaku talks to Kuroo.

“What’d I do this time?” Kuroo snaps. “Don’t touch,” he adds, when Yaku aims at Tsukishima. “Shirofuku, you too, stop firing at them!” This at the woman trying to destroy Sugawara. “They’re Americans, government agents. If we fuck with them it won’t end well!”

“Americans?” Yaku squints suspiciously at Tsukishima and at Hinata and Yamaguchi, whom Bokuto’s holding by their shirt collars. “Fucking hell, Lev, put the automatic down, now!”

Everyone present turns towards the dude in the hallway, who tried to raise a Heckler & Koch in the kerfluffle. Super young, also in a cassock, and probably around Tsukishima’s height. And he has such a disappointed face, Tsukishima can’t help but add quietly, “Or else dad’s going to be upset...”

“Yaku’s the mom,” Kuroo whispers in his ear. “I’m the father in this dynamic.”

“You’re the second uncle everyone hates.” Yaku points at him with the gun. Tsukishima thinks he likes this guy even more now. Just like Semi. It appears Tsukishima just likes everyone who makes fun of Kuroo, and especially his hairstyle.

“I’ve had it with you.” Kuroo steps back to the wall, dragging Tsukishima with him. “And so has he. So fuck off, we’re offended.”

“In your case you should only really be offended at your genetics,” Tsukishima comments. He can’t feel his arm below his elbow anymore.

Yaku raises his eyebrows in surprise and nods approvingly, and the cold muzzle of Kuroo’s gun is pressed closer to his chin, forcing Tsukishima to pull his head up higher.

“Be more careful on the turns, wiseguy, or I’ll shoot you.”

Tsukishima smirks. He feels like if Kuroo really wanted to shoot him, he would’ve done it a long time ago. So he says, chasing the anxiety further away, “You won’t shoot. You like that I’m a wiseguy.”

“And I like that he’s a wiseguy.” Yaku nods approvingly again. “So, no shooting them?”

Tsukishima’s heart traitorously skips a beat. He suddenly hopes it wasn’t noticeable, especially to that damn Kuroo. How stupid.

“No,” that damn Kuroo answers carelessly. “Do you want to see some kind of special forces team show up here instead of these white collar kids? You know Americans can’t stand to lose their own guys. Bring even more problems to the old man, we’ll get demoted down to altarboys. Do you wanna be like Lev?”

The guy named Lev is staring at them in confusion, gripping in his hands a Belgian Five-seven from the Secret Service arsenal. Yaku gives him a look and he immediately puts the weapon on a table and starts nervously flipping a rosary around in his hands instead.

“Shut up.” Yaku turns back to Kuroo. “The plates?”

Kuroo frowns. “With the Japanese.”

Bokuto’s employee, Yukie Shirofuku, throws her weapon over her shoulder. “What, again? You’re kidding!”

“This wasn’t any of the possibilities!” Yaku throws his hands up. “How did that happen?”

“Half of Jakarta stopped by here today.” Kuroo smirks. Tsukishima can’t see Kuroo’s face, but he has no doubts: Kuroo’s voice reflects every shade of his toothy, ironic feelings. “I’ll tell you in the car.”

“Okay.” Yaku nods and makes a sign at Lev. “Let’s go, then.”

“Can we take Glasses with us?” Kuroo asks in the end.

“No,” Tsukishima snaps.

“No,” Sugawara adds, although it’s unlikely anyone else present is still concerned with his opinion.

“No, don’t even think about it,” Yaku finally says, in a tone of “put it back where you found it.”

“Seems like he’s never thinking, period,” Tsukishima blurts out, and he’s instantly yanked up by his arms. All he can do is hiss from pain and close his eyes. It feels like his joints are actually vibrating. He definitely won’t be able to hold anything with this hand today.

“Do you always use physical force when you don’t know what to answer?” Tsukishima understands he’s incapable of stopping at this point. He’s not even paying attention to the pain. And this is very strange: he’s always thought that being recklessly rude to someone who could at any moment put a bullet through your head is something for either suicidal idiots or complete idiots.

“I changed my mind about taking you with me,” Kuroo informs him. “You’re a shameless boy.”

“And here I was thinking that’s your favorite type.”

“Oh my God, are you flirting with me?!”

Tsukishima categorically disagrees with this assessment, but he needs to get out of this now. “Think of it as a method of self-defense.”

“Shut the fuck up, both of you,” Yaku cuts them off. “Kai says a group of five cars just pulled up to Hamaima. Cartel’s got something moving, and I don’t like it.”

Judging his face, he never likes anything. He sets them all up against the wall, and Kuroo has to let Tsukishima go. The almost completely twisted arm is twitching slightly as it regains circulation, but he holds up until the Church disappears into the hallway.

But as soon as the door slams, he grabs his elbow and hisses, biting his lip.

“Did he break it?” A worried Yamaguchi appears at his side, blinking his big scared eyes at him. For that kid today must be the most intense day he’s experienced in twenty six years of life: he’s never seen this many weapons in use at once.

Not that Tsukishima’s much more experienced with that.

“No.” He tries to clench his fist. “Agent Sugawara...”

“Sugawara-san.” Hinata stares glumly at the door. “Are we going to follow them?”

Sugawara shakes his head, digging through his phone. “No point. We lost the plates, and they—”

There’s a knock on the door.

“Room service!”

They all exchange a look — even Yachi, who looks like she’s about to laugh from stress — and rush to the shattered door, bumping each other’s shoulders. Sugawara kicks the door open to aim three guns at once into the face of yet another Jakartan criminal authority.

This Jakartan criminal authority turns out to be a thin Asian maid with a rolling cart and a vacuum cleaner in her hand.

Through the guns three serious, concentrating faces look at her, their expressions gradually giving way to surprise, and then Yamaguchi’s thin voice behind them, shaking like a leaf, says,

“I-I ordered it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well that sure was a Lot huh  
> so in the original ppl referred to Suga as Inspector Sugawara and Kiyoko as Chief Inspector but these aren't actual titles in the US Secret Service so I looked up the actual organizational structure of the secret service and tried to stick to that  
> additional reminder that this fic takes place in 2016  
> also: ppl from miami generally don't have southern accents but the idea of tsukishima kei with a southern US accent is so Fucking funny to me I can't change it. maybe his mom's from alabama or something idk in my head he sounds exactly like one of my friends from college now and I'm LIVING  
> also: [this fanart](https://twitter.com/Viktoriart1/status/1111371103773954055) I linked in chapter 1 is for this chapter so linking it again here lol  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

There’s a radio blasting in the car, but Tsukishima’s not listening. He absently directs his gaze somewhere in the direction of the glove compartment. He just doesn’t know what to say.

Even if you just look at the purely professional question of the work he just did: yes, he’s ashamed of himself. For the tailing, the destroyed hotel suite, the stupidly stolen stereoplates, his own awkward weapon handling. The thought that maybe, if he just held the gun more confidently, everything would’ve turned out differently won’t leave his head. Tsukishima knows there’s no need to worry, but he also knows it all could’ve gone better. Frowning, he drags his hands across his face.

“Don’t blame everything on yourself,” Special Agent in Charge Shimizu tells him from the driver’s seat. “You did everything as instructed. We can’t account for everything.”

Tsukishima side-eyes her. The sunrise behind the window colors her thin, elegant profile a delicate pinkish-red shade. Serious, collected, she even comforts professionally.

Kiyoko Shimizu is the kind of woman they make Hollywood blockbusters about: a woman in a position of power, a woman who never makes mistakes, a woman who is an iron fist in a velvet glove. Obviously very smart and impossibly beautiful, although Tsukishima’s not the best judge of a woman’s appearance.

“I apologize,” he says anyway, looking out his own window. Shimizu just sighs tiredly. She hasn’t slept today either.

When she returned from the embassy she found the hotel room disassembled to bricks, them in shambles, and the administration of the hotel enraged. It takes her around an hour to quash the scandal, and it takes them half an hour to move out of the hotel and twenty minutes to retell the story of their embarrassment.

After finding out her brave underlings stumbled on a conflict with the Sunrise Cartel, Shimizu decides that they shouldn’t wait for everything to get even worse. So that’s why they’re on their way to Washijou right now.

“If you’ll allow me,” Tsukishima begins uncertainly, with a cough. Shimizu nods without looking away from the road. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”

“Of course.” She nods again.

“Ma’am, are you certain that talking with Washijou is a good idea?”

And that’s the second thought that’s been worrying him this whole drive.

Really he doubts they should have any kind of dealings in Washijou’s city. Gangs in America and gangs in Asia, despite their similarly criminal characters, differ in almost all other respects. Starting from the fact that gangs in the States stay gangs— hiding from the police, not going for federal crimes, working around the law; they act logically and understandably. Gangs in Jakarta try to become the law. Gangs in Jakarta try to get everything, beyond their own targets: destroying an entire wharf in a fight, shoot each other in hotels, set up car chases and shootouts right in the center of town. When the Sunrise Cartel, the Triad, and Al Shamed get involved, the police step back.

So if Agent Shimizu’s killed right on the top floor of Hamaima Tower, no one here’s going to care about it. Except for Tsukishima, who is staying in the car and will patiently await her return.

“This is necessary.” She nods. They spin out onto an empty exit and drive towards the southern part of the city. The low buildings of Old Town shoot up and turn into business centers, hotels and glass-and-concrete skyscrapers.

“Why?” Tsukishima doesn’t understand. He’s tired and wants to sleep, but he wants to understand more.

“The Sunrise Cartel is known far beyond the borders of Jakarta,” the usually taciturn Shimizu begins to explain. “We’re only dealing with the counterfeiting of American currency, but collecting all possible information to cooperate with the local government. In the last two years the Cartel’s moved in on the counterfeit currency market. Besides the drug business across the entire Siam Strait and South China Sea, he’s started printing Thai bhat and Chinese yuan. We were only passing information to their special agencies, so I don’t know how it all ended. Nevertheless the Cartel has enough people and power to conduct business in several countries and fully control their own territory in Jakarta. According to our data, they have around 1500 members.

“And Washijou Tanji, the head of this organization, is well known for his...despotic personality. He can’t stand when strangers get involved in his business and especially when they get in his way. His conversations with those strangers are short. Do you think he’ll be happy to know that six unknown foreigners are wrecking his plans and shooting at his people?”

“And knowing all this” — Tsukishima raises his eyebrows — “you still want to go there? He’ll kill you at the door!”

“I want to set boundaries. Explain that we’re not here for the Cartel, we’re here for Ukai. Stress our shared motive: we’re here to put Ukai behind bars, and that’s exactly what Washijou wants, if not Ukai’s death. Especially because shooting unknowns is one thing, shooting special agents of the USA is another. Washijou’s careful, he’ll think twice before going after that. He won’t kill me, especially not at the door.”

She sounds confident, but Tsukishima still thinks the risk is a lot higher. 

“And if he’s not in a good mood?” He asks.

“Why shouldn’t he be in a good mood?” Shimizu snorts. “He’s got the plates, he won. In fact, I think right now is the ideal time to go talk to him.” She’s saying this like she’s about to go have brunch with an old friend. Tsukishima shakes his head.

Shimizu parks the car and opens the door to get out. Tsukishima can’t do anything, the feeling of guilt mixes with anxiety, and he...

“If something goes wrong, I’ll let you know,” she says, leaning into the car. Her dark hair gleams in the light of the rising sun. Who knows, maybe Washijou appreciates feminine beauty, and won’t be able to cause her any harm?

She steps out and crosses the road. Tsukishima watches her graceful silhouette, pulled into a dark short-sleeved blouse and thin linen slacks, vanish into the building, and then leans back in his seat, lowering the seat back a bit. His spine aches, his head throbs. This night was too eventful.

He remembers bullets missing his face by a centimeter, the firmness of the wall under his shoulderblades when the Japanese guy lined them all up, and the barrel of someone else’s gun pressed into his chin. Yeah, he never expected this kind of life after graduating from Stanford. When did everything go so wrong?

Tsukishima hmphs, tilting his head to one side and closing his tired eyes. What would Akiteru say if he knew how many times people aimed at his little brother in the last 24 hours? He turns his memories of the last night through his mind, analyzing every moment. But some things he just wants to cross out— from embarrassment at his own inexperience, his awkwardness, his irritation. And surprisingly enough, all of that he experienced whenever Kuroo Tetsurou opened his mouth. Tsukishima grimaces, imagining his face.

He knows he gives off the impression of a controlled, rational person, and he can easily list qualities he likes in people and qualities he finds irritating. Tsukishima is definitely impressed by intelligence, no matter the personality of the person who has it.

And Kuroo is intelligent; he’s well-spoken, he’s a master of provocation and can figure out a person’s weaknesses from one glance. No wonder he poked at Tsukishima specifically and used his irritability. He picks the target that requires the least amount of time and resources.

“Damn!” Tsukishima grumbles, opening his eyes.

The realization that he was the easiest target to provoke wasn’t how he wanted to start a beautiful new day.

***

“That’s exactly what he said?” Sugawara rubs the bridge of his nose. He and Shimizu talk by the far table in the only room.

“It’s possible that’s the best I managed to get for us.”

“Let’s start with the fact that you survived.”

Tsukishima listens to them while sitting on a stool. Morning light stabs his exhausted eyes, morning Hinata’s getting on his nerves, since he’s apparently immune to stress. He’s standing, leaning slightly against the door, watching the conversation intently and occasionally inserting loud comments.

“Naturally, the Cartel won’t cooperate with us,” Shimizu underscores. “But if we’re not going after the stereoplates, we can do whatever we want. They don’t have any objections to us.”

“But...” Hinata crosses his arms over his chest, not understanding. “We’re going to. Our whole goal is to take the plates off the market and stop production!”

“I decided,” Shimizu says in a calming tone, “that Washijou didn’t need that information.”

She brought information to the head of the Cartel selectively, carefully portioning it out. We’re looking for Ukai Ikkei. We don’t have any objections to you, specifically. The stereoplates are probably someone else’s concern, but our group has a different goal that doesn’t act against your own interests.

Sugawara listens to the end, and then stands up, stretches his arms, runs his hands through his hair, and heads into the living room.

“Tadashi, have you found anything?” He leans over Yamaguchi’s shoulder. Yamaguchi’s running his fingers over the keys so fast the tapping blurs into a monotone. On the screen, matrices of white numbers run across a black background, a familiar portrait of searching.

While Tsukishima and Shimizu were dealing with the Cartel, the rest of the group transferred their things to a safe location and started searching through the database for their recent guests. The safe location is a rental apartment in Bekasi.

Tsukishima is forced to admit to himself: he is disgusted by the idea of sleeping, walking and sitting on everything in here except this wonderful wooden stool. Tsukishima steps over a ball of chargers, half of which stretch towards extension cords and half of which are permanently tangled, grabs the stool with one hand and carries it to the table.

Yamaguchi sits, hunched over with his head bowed. He also probably hasn’t slept since their arrival. Tsukishima considers himself lucky, since he did manage to sneak in a nap in the car. The rest of the group didn’t get that opportunity.

It seems Sugawara suddenly remembers this too and sends Yachi off to get some rest: she’s practically falling over as it is.

“I’m almost certain those weren’t their real names or identities,” Yamaguchi shakes his head. His eyes run across the screen as fast as his fingers on the keyboard, and his freckled face seems paler than usual. “I need more time.”

Tsukishima throws a glance out the window at the plateau of identical houses, separated by narrow alleys. Authentic slums: dirty, loud, dark. Barefoot children, cheap sun-warmed cars, melting asphalt. It’s getting closer to noon, so it’s only going to get even hotter from here. Right now Tsukishima’s impossibly irritated by every criminal element in Jakarta at once: he really liked the hotel’s air conditioner.

When he walks up to Yamaguchi and sets a mug of strong coffee down in front of him, Yamaguchi jerks his head up, startling, and smiles gratefully.

“What’ve you got there?” Tsukishima asks, leaning against the edge of the table and drinking from his own mug.

“There’s something here.” Yamaguchi scratches his neck and pulls up a dossier on one of their first visitors. “You said the leader yelled ‘Nishinoya’ at him? You’re sure about that, Tsukki?”

Tsukishima nods, frowning slightly. Yeah, he heard very clearly: that guy, Shuichi, was directly in front of him, no more than ten feet away.

“Because according to the information from the Osaka prison he did three years in, he’s called Akihiko Kunio.” Tadashi sips and hisses when he burns his tongue.

“Careful,” Tsukshima mutters, looking into the photograph of Akihiko Kunio from the police file. Sugawara’s right: something’s off.

“Nickname?” Yamaguchi thoughtfully rakes his fingers across the laptop. All the computers the Service brought with them to Jakarta are massive and heavy, at least six pounds each. Massive suitcases of magnesium alloy, with touchscreens that rotate 180 degrees. That’s what secret services tech looks like. Tsukishima, who usually works on lightweight portable models, thinks that’s inconvenient, but Yamaguchi disagrees.

“Nickname,” Tsukishima echoes tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses. He hasn’t slept in nearly two days now, and his head can barely retain anything at this point. “A nickname... Well, we’ll see. Let’s keep looking.”

***

He manages to lie down for two hours and he wakes up with imprints of the pillow on his face. Hinata giggles at him like they’re both seven years old. Because, as he finds out ten minutes later, Sugawara woke him up for a reason.

“You and Hinata need to go to Banten,” Sugawara declares, having woken him up for a reason. He’s sitting in front of one of the computers next to Yamaguchi. Shimizu’s gone again, but Tsukishima’s used to that.

“Target?” Hinata asks, instantly switching back into government agent mode. He checks his gun, takes Sugawara’s car keys, nods calmly while receiving directions and points Tsukishima to the door. Orders are orders, and Tsukishima follows him.

They need to conduct a friendly visit to Terushima Yuuji — the dude who first got the plates from Ukai Ikkei. Sugawara and Shimizu probably aren’t expecting anything, but are trying to work every angle.

Banten’s on the other end of the city, so they have to spend nearly fifty minutes in the car, driving down lots of tiny streets.

“You’re not bad at driving on the right,” Tsukishima notices reluctantly, side-eyeing Hinata.

Hinata grins happily and answers, “I visit my auntie in Japan every vacation.”

They were never super close in the Academy, though they were there at the same time. But Tsukishima didn’t really talk to most people there, and Hinata was on track to become an operative while Tsukishima fully intended to only work in offices his entire life.

“What about you, Tsukishima?” Hinata frowns, like he’s trying to remember something. “You’re from, where, Georgia?”

“Miami,” Tsukishima mumbles.

“Whoaa, you don’t look like a Miami guy at all!” Hinata laughs. “I’m from Ohio and I always thought that in Miami Beach everyone’s all tan and buff and...”

“Tall?” Tsukishima snorts.

Seeing a traffic jam ahead, Hinata checks the GPS and turns into an alley with laundry hanging low between buildings.

“My family moved to the States for work.” Tsukishima detests empty conversations for filling silence, but Hinata doesn’t mind them, so he asks, “What about you?”

“I don’t have any personal ties to Japan.” Tsukishima shrugs in response.

His great-grandfather was the one who’d made it over to America, so he’s never considered himself part of the Land of the Rising Sun.

Hinata continues to chatter about something, but the even hum of the road and radio slowly lulls Tsukishima, not to sleep, but to stop answering. At least Hinata doesn’t seem to need a conversational partner.

After a while they drive into the university district of Banten, where Terushima Yuuji lives. Almost blocking off the road with their car, they park it next to a fence, walk out and head towards the tiny house. According to the most recent information, Terushima made it over here after his apartment was destroyed by the trio of Cartel-Church-Bokuto-&-Friends.

When the doorbell rings, Tsukishima expects the owner of the house to open it. Bobata Kazuma, who, just like Terushima, is a small-time reseller of Japanese extraction.

But Terushima’s the one who opens it. Opens it without looking, while saying something in Indonesian to someone else inside the house. Then he sees them, and it’s obvious by his face he was expecting someone else.

“And who are you?” He smirks, fearlessly pulling the door wide open and putting a hand on his hip. His English is genuinely terrible. Tsukishima can barely guess the words.

“Room service,” he mumbles, while Hinata in flawless Japanese says “Are you Terushima Yuuji?”

Instead of asking “Yeah, and you are?” or saying “No, no idea who that is,” or “Get the fuck out of my house,” Terushima stares at Hinata and happily asks, “Whaaaaat, you know Japanese?”

Terushima’s behavior matches his appearance: bleached hair in an undercut, a leopard-print blazer, silk shirt, thick gold chain around his neck and— crocodile skin shoes complete this whole fashion disaster aesthetic.

Behind him in the house there’s music playing, which Tsukishima firmly refuses to recognize as Ariana Grande.

“We’re Japanese,” Hinata assures Terushima.

Terushima cheerfully squints in Tsukishima’s direction, says, “Your friend doesn’t seem like it,” and then waves his hand in a grand gesture. “Fine, y’all can come on in!”

Which they do.

“This is Bobata,” Tsukishima nods at a dude sitting on a mattress with one arm around a hookah. He’s in his underpants, watching some movie on a massive flatscreen TV on the floor, using a giant teddy bear as a pillow, and salutes them with the pipe. “Don’t be scared of him, guys. He’s trash.”

Atmosphere: five. Decor: zero.

The den, and not a house, as Tsukishima suddenly decides with a Puritan strictness, stepping around a pile of dirty objects with an electric guitar sticking out of it. The walls are covered in posters, there’s no wallpaper, the only visible furniture is the mattress and a long dresser with cables and garbage peeking out of the drawers. Garbage is everywhere here actually: chips on the floor, crunchy snack bags, crumpled magazines, porn DVDs, weed on an upside-down Apple keyboard.

“So like, who are you guys?” Terushima asks carelessly. “And whaddaya want? If you need weed that’s next door.”

Great. Now he thinks they’re stoners.

“Nah, that’s not our jam,” Hinata answers in the same tone. “We just have a little question.”

“You don’t really look like the kinda people who come by with little questions.” Terushima drinks from a bottle with the label scraped off.

“Who do we look like?” Hinata asks, trying to pry a suspicious hard candy off the dresser. Tsukishima smacks his hand away.

“Well, you’re not from the Church.” Terushima scratches his chin. “They’ve got Yaku running everything when they need to bash some faces in. A holy Father the size of a cucumber...”

Bobata cackles at the joke like he’s never heard anything funnier in his life. Tsukishima winces in disgust.

“If you know'im, I never said jack.” Terushima points at them. And then sighs. “Well, you’re def here about the stereoplates, so...”

Hinata practically interrupts. “How’d you guess?”

Maybe he’s smart. Maybe everyone chasing after the plates is connected to a singular hivemind.

Terushima runs a hand along his burned-out hair and laughs. “Like, come on, dude. The last few days everything in this city’s been all about those plates. And since I was the first buyer” — bragging notes creep into his voice — “people are practically asking for my autograph. By the way, I actually saw Ukai Ikkei himself, in the flesh.”

Hinata’s not impressed by this, but he pretends to be wildly interested and begs, “Tell us!”

And Terushima Yuuji tells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told u this one was short lol  
> god the image of tsukishima kei at stanford is almost as funny as the image of tsukishima kei with a southern accent. go pines  
> terushima's dialogue is so damn slangy in russian I shot myself in the foot by making everyone else talk at my maximum possible level of slanginess to make his speech sound distinctive but like. idk read his lines in a surfer dude voice pls thx  
> the "holy father the size of a cucumber" phrase is a literal translation of an uncommon-but-existing rhyming Russian idiom bc I couldn't think of a good English equivalent and my friend told me to leave it bc it is funny  
> next chapter's....medium length so uh see you in a few days I guess!


	7. Chapter 7

Tsukishima, bored to tears, nudges one of the discs on the floor with his foot. Terushima and Hinata are sitting on the tabletop and still talking — about Ukai, who sold Terushima the plates, about some Daishou Suguru, who’s a little shit and tried to cheat Terushima out of his cash, about Oikawa from the Citadel biker club and the dudes from Bojong. Terushima retells the scene in his own apartment, where he stars as a martyr amongst motherfuckers casting stones.

Getting the gist and hearing the most important parts, Tsukishima signals to Hinata that they should wrap it up here. Hinata probably would’ve listened for longer, but Tsukishima’s expressive glare doesn’t let him.

On the way to the exit Tsukishima tsk’s skeptically at the television showing some phantasmagorical commercial, and is about to step out the door, when Terushima’s stoned pal flops across the mattress. 

“What, you don’t like Ines Putri?” He slurs to Tsukishima.

“Bobata, fuck off,” Terushima yells from the other end of the first floor.

Bobata calms down suddenly, the way only people under the influence can, and in a friendlier tone asks, “So what, don’t like her? Huh?”

Tsukishima stares at Hinata, because Hinata knows: as soon as Tsukishima speaks, everyone will know that he’s anything but Japanese.

“He...” Hinata stares back, and then shifts his gaze to Bobata and, in a voice laden with sympathy, explains, “He’s gay.”

It takes an enormous amount of effort for Tsukishima to stay silent for the next five minutes while Hinata and Terushima chat about topics entirely unrelated to their area of interest.

But as soon as the door closes behind them, Tsukishima unleashes the hounds.

“But you really are gay,” Hinata protests, “it’s not like I was lying!”

“And you have chronic dumbass disorder, but I don’t tell everyone we meet about it!”

They’re almost back at the car, still arguing, when from the gate they hear a voice yell, “Hey dudes!”

Tsukishima and Hinata turn in sync. Terushima, already holding a glass of beer, walks closer and says: “I just remembered: his taxi was dark-blue, like a Ford or something. Do you need that?”

“Yeah,” Tsukishima exhales, fixing his glasses, and drops one of his stock phrases. “Thank you very much for the information.”

And then he realizes he’s speaking English.

“You don’t even have a really Japanese face,” Terushima laughs, slapping him on the shoulder. Tsukishima will never wear this shirt again. “Chill out, why should I care? Peace, bros.” And he goes back inside.

Tsukishima watches him go for a second, but doesn’t give himself enough time to think it through. “Terushima,” he calls out softly without thinking. Hinata instantly turns back around and listens in, brat. Terushima turns too. “Have you ever heard of... Kuroo Tetsurou?”

Terushima bursts into laughter. “Kuroo Tetsurou? Hard not to hear about him, dude.” He smirks. “I, for example, heard he’s back in town, but we haven’t crossed paths again yet. And once we do, I’ll put a bullet in his head.”

Tsukishima smiles politely. “Why?”

“Because he’s an asshole,” Terushima says simply. “And a thorn in everyone’s side. In Jakarta he pisses off every fifth person in this city.”

“Hey, maybe without the depressing statistic!” Kuroo’s voice rings in Tsukishima’s head. He smirks with one side of his mouth.

“You’re laughing, but it’s the honest truth, dawg. The Cartel doesn’t like him, the Muslims don’t like him, the Chinese just can’t stand him. Iwaizumi from the Citadel once put a bounty upon his head, but someone... dealt with that.” He waves a hand vaguely. “And about three, four years back even his own guys wanted to end him, they had some kinda kerfuffle that had half the South on the hop. That’s when he fucked off from here to everyone’s delight. But if he’s back, that’s good.” Terushima hmphs in satisfaction. “He’s owed me some wheels since 2012.”

Which just goes to show.

“Thank you,” Tsukishima says out loud.

And once they’re seated in the car and Hinata gives him a surprised look, he explodes. “What? Floor it!”

***

“He’s got nothing,” Tsukishima shakes his head, once he’s on a chair in the apartment’s kitchen. “Ukai didn’t leave any clues. They met for literally a minute, he handed off the stereoplates and got in a taxi.”

“He didn’t remember the number of the taxi, I assume?” Shimizu quirks an eyebrow.

Tsukishima shakes his head. “Dark blue Bluebird, but half the city has a car like that. We’ll try checking by date and region? They met by the Citra Garden City shopping center. Maybe the cameras...”

“No need.” Shimizu shakes her head.

Sugawara frowns.

“We’re not gonna work the Ukai angle? Then what’re we going to do, if the Cartel has the plates?”

“We’ll think about it,” Shimizu answers, adjusting her glasses. “For now... I’ve arranged a meeting with the Church of Lascano.”

***

When they finally find the metalworks on the grounds of an abandoned automobile factory — massive, high-ceilinged spaces with long rows of almost untouched glass and metal gates — they’re almost fifteen minutes late to their meeting. Although, they didn’t really need to rush. The Church, as it happens, isn’t known for their punctuality.

“Let’s say we got here on time,” Hinata grumbles, “and that they were even later than they actually end up being.”

“And what do you think they’ll say to that?” Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “Buy us all a pizza as an apology?”

And then there’s noise.

The Church representatives roll into the empty workshop with their motors roaring pompously. Tsukishima winces from the loud, resonating sound. Two cars — the standard Church Mercedes G-Wagen and an equally massive Hummer.

Two people get out from the G-Wagen: an already familiar small figure in a black cassock and Kuroo. Two more — Bokuto and Shirofuku — emerge from the Hummer. He slams the door defiantly, she — lazily. Honestly though, a person who leans against a meter-long Mauser as they exit a vehicle is allowed to be lazy.

The Church people line up in front of their trio and look very self-confident. Yaku’s lighting a cigarette slowly while Bokuto starts the conversation.

“Good afternoon, guys,” he nods politely. “So like, how’s it going?”

“Wonderfully.” Sugawara smiles disarmingly, creating the absurd illusion that they’re all here for a friendly game of — of volleyball, just for example.

“So, what exactly do the American special forces need in Jakarta?” Yaku lets out a stream of smoke. “Trying to catch Ukai himself or just the stereoplates?”

“Any overseas operations with the participation of the government structures of the United States are categorically not involved with this mission,” Sugawara says in a surprised voice. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Yaku-san.”

The Japanese honorific seems entirely out of place to even Yaku himself, who, according to the files, was born and raised in Indonesia. He grimaces, but everything Sugawara says is deliberate.

“We’re tourists.” He smiles.

Yaku raises his eyebrows so expressively, he doesn’t need to use words. But he says, “Tourists. In that case, my guys are entrepreneurs.”

“Planning to open a tourist business?” Kuroo snickers. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“Hot tours to the bottom of the South China Sea,” Bokuto cackles.

“I thought you’ve already found yourself a cover.” Sugawara smirks. “The Lord’s work is the most righteous, is it not?”

Shirofuku puts a hand to her mouth and whispers loudly, “He’s just mad the cassock doesn’t look good on him.”

“The bishop said you requested collaboration.” Ignoring her entirely, Yaku shifts focus to the matter at hand.

Sugawara also throws aside his benign tone. “We’re uninterested in the activities of the Church or crimes committed on Indonesian territory” — he glances at Bokuto — “or other countries. Crimes, committed on the territory of or against the United States, are also outside of our jurisdiction and area of interest.” He spreads his arms out. “We’re here to find the printing plates for U. S. Dollars, which can harm the American economy, and remove them.”

“You do realize that we’re not looking for the plates to hang them up around the monastic cells and admire them?” Kuroo clarifies, jumping into the conversation.

Sugawara, underscoring whose opinion in the Church holds significance for him, doesn’t take his eyes off Yaku.

“We’re suggesting a collaboration to extract the plates from the Cartel.”

“You mean you want to rob the Cartel, pretty boy,” Shirofuku drawls. “Call it like it is.”

Tsukishima shoots a glance at Kuroo, who — he can almost sense it — definitely wants to insert something offensive and irrelevant into the discussion. Instead, Kuroo catches Bokuto’s reproachful look and stays put.

“Half the city already knows we’re after the stereoplates,” Sugawara continues. “No one’s going to work with us. And it might seem to you that we’re in an absolutely lose-lose situation, while you have a choice—”

“That’s exactly what it seems like,” Kuroo jumps in again. Tsukishima raises his eyebrows. Could this guy stop trying to get everyone’s attention for even one minute?

“ —If Nekomata Yasufumi hadn’t promised Washijou that he wouldn’t interfere,” Sugawara finishes. 

Yaku’s jaw drops. Okay, everyone’s jaws drop, even Hinata’s. Tsukishima himself manages to maintain a neutral expression at the last minute.

“Where’d you get that idea.” Yaku freezes with his cigarette at the corner of his mouth, frowns and looks even more threatening than usual. How did Kuroo survive ten years growing up next to this guy?

“We have our sources,” Sugawara snaps.

“Did you read it in a tourist brochure?” Kuroo suggests.

“We—”

“Share your guidebook!”

Sugawara’s eyelid twitches.

“The Church can’t cross paths with the Cartel,” he continues, containing his irritation. “If they find out you’re still in the race” — he looks around at the group — “the Church will be razed to the ground. They won’t leave any survivors and you know that.”

“Don’t pull us into this.” Shirofuku crosses her arms over her chest. “We can at any moment wave goodbye to these guys.” She nods at Yaku and Kuroo.

“Can we not do this now?” Kuroo snaps.

“Hey, why not now? We’re only here because Bokuto’s ride or die for you, so...”

“What about your diamonds? And the thirteen million euros?”

“Dude!”

“You think we don’t have enough money?”

“Shirofuku!”

“I thought Bokuto had plenty of money, but...”

Yaku has an expression on his face of someone who hasn't killed himself yet because he's afraid he'll have to deal with these people on the other side as well. He closes his eyes and — Tsukishima would bet the briefcase of steroplates on it — counts to ten.

Sugawara’s voice is almost sympathetic when he continues to push his views. “We need your help. You need ours.”

“Or should I count the number of times I saved all your asses? Hawaii, that’s one,” — and Kuroo really does start counting on his fingers — “Vladivostok, two, Marrakech, three, Dresden, that city in Albania with the funny name—”

“Considering all of that, it’s very strange you haven’t been caught yet,” Tsukishima interrupts. He tilts his head slightly and gives Kuroo a measured once-over— from his absurd hairstyle to the maroon pants he has tucked into a pair of heavy boots.

Instead of getting offended, he loses all of his aggressive fire and refocuses on Tsukishima.

“Awwww,” he notices, touched, “you looked me up on your secret databases?”

Tsukishima determinedly maintains his neutral expression.

“Find anything interesting?”

“Kuroo Tetsurou,” Tsukishima recites from memory. “Thirty two years old. Born in Tokyo, moved to Jakarta at age six with his father. Expelled from school at fourteen.”

“I learn better outside the classroom!”

Tsukishima doesn’t mention the mother who passed away still in Japan and the father who died when Kuroo was still fourteen for obvious reasons. As well as the fact that at twenty three, Kuroo and accomplices somehow managed to rob the Grand Lisboa casino in Macau, one of the most prestigious casinos there. Tsukishima prefers to list his more modest accomplishments.

“A few arrests for hooliganism, a buried charge about marijuana possession, vandalism, antisocial behavior, an unsuccessful grocery store robbery...”

“Get to the fun parts, there’s some really wild moments in there later!”

“...Multiple counts of exhibitionism.”

“That wasn’t in there!” Kuroo protests. “What were you reading?”

Nothing, Tsukishima just made it up to hide his embarrassment. Right after the “attack” on their hotel room by the maid he’d asked Yamaguchi to dig up information for him on Kuroo specifically.

“Let’s not get distracted,” Sugawara calls. “We didn’t come to this factory in the middle of nowhere for no reason.”

Like Kuroo’s going to listen to him. “Speaking of, Yaku, what’d they make here?” He asks, rocking back and forth on his feet.

“Timors.”

“Let’s discuss—”

“Bitch, let’s get out of here! I hate Timors!”

“Can you shut up?”

“Listen—”

“We brought pizza with anchovies,” Bokuto shares, gesturing at his Hummer with his thumb. “Anyone want pizza?” 

***

“Find me everything on them,” Shimizu orders the next morning, before sitting down at a laptop in the kitchen. Tsukishima thinks she could’ve had the guts to bug Washijou’s office and is now eavesdropping on him.

Yesterday Sugawara did manage to agree to another meeting with the Church. Tsukishima didn’t approve of the plan, but understood they didn’t really have a choice. They need to unite with someone in Jakarta, and the Church was the only suitable option.

He sighs, finishing his coffee, grabs a stool and sits down next to Yamaguchi. They know the general facts: twenty years ago after getting out of Gitarama, Yasufumi Nekomata arrives in Jakarta on a boat of Rwandan refugees. Then using money from an unknown source buys a plot of land in Putri — a place that’s, judging by the photographs, fairly aesthetically pleasing. Gifts the land to a Catholic church, almost instantly gets promoted to priest by the Diocese and starts building his business. The holy church of synthetic heroin. Tsukishima shakes his head.

The Church’s deliveries go to: Oceania, Australia, and all the islands of Polynesia. They help with smaller dealer’s shipments, help spread traffic to certain points on Java, hold a few competitors in check. A stable, successful business.

“The Church of Saint Lascano. Is that even a real saint?” Tsukishima thinks out loud.

“Eriberto Lascano,” Yamaguchi answers distractedly, scratching the tip of his freckled nose and tapping the touchpad. “He’s a Mexican drug dealer.”

“Find anything new?” Hinata’s red mane pops up between them. “They’ll be here in twenty minutes!”

If anyone was interested in Tsukishima’s opinion at all, then he thinks it’s a highly inadvisable move to bring people who’d wrecked your last place of residence to your new house. But nobody’s asking Tsukishima.

“Tell me about their leaders,” Shimizu says loudly, not looking up from the computer. 

“Well, after Nekomata and his right hand, Manabu Naoi, Yaku’s the next person in their hierarchy,” Tsukishima explains what he remembers anyway, but checks with the profile just in case. “Nekomata and Naoi are the executive leaders of their business, Yaku the coordinator.”

“Was he that...” Yachi asks, “sma...ll man?”

Tsukishima raises his eyebrows slightly, but reads out, “Morisuke Yaku, thirty two years old, priest, height, in case you were wondering, five feet and five inches.”

“Oh, he seemed shorter in person.” Hinata smiles guilelessly.

God, look who’s talking. Tsukishima covers his face with one hand.

“In February of last year Yaku was promoted to priest. Is a suspect in the murders of Wahidin Widodo, Hasan Prasetyo and David Moscowitz, but the cases were closed and buried, he was found innocent every time.”

After the name Hasan Prasetyo he hears a low awed whistling noise behind his back. “Who’re you talking about?” Sugawara asks. In the halo of light from the kitchen he seems like an omen of the apocalypse.

“Yaku Morisuke,” Hinata answers and gestures with his palm somewhere around shoulder level. Tsukishima thinks that if Yaku saw how tall Hinata imagines him to be, he’d cut off Hinata’s legs exactly to that point.

Shimizu looks up from her computer and, straightening her glasses, asks, “What’d you think of him?”

Sugawara waves his hands in the air thoughtfully, then answers, “Seems impulsive, but rational. And thoughtful. Unpleasant gaze — heavy, weighted. And Nekomata didn’t make him a priest for his pretty eyes, I’m sure. We have to be careful with him.”

Shimizu, hesitating, nods and returns to the screen, saying, “Who else is there? All of the details, out loud.”

And that, it seems, is up to them.

***

The cacophony of glass breaking, cats howling and car alarms going off breaks against the window like a wave of sound. Yamaguchi almost falls off his chair, Hinata’s face turns predatory, Sugawara grabs a gun off the bedside table and leans against the wall next to the window. All of Tsukishima’s insides pull into a tight knot, because that’s his gun.

In the doorway to the kitchen two feminine faces peek out. Yachi, terrified, and Special Agent in Charge Shimizu, frowning.

“Get out!” A woman’s voice yells in Indonesian. “Get out of here!”

Sugawara looks out the window for a few seconds, then lowers his gun, sighs, opens the door and yells: “Building across the street!”

Please don’t say it’s...

“You said it was number 33!” Bokuto’s voice rings out.

“The odds are on this side of the street!”

“I did tell you,” says a familiar voice.

Tsukishima is a rational person, but deep inside he had hoped that somewhere on the way to Bekasi the car Kuroo was in would get into an accident.

“You didn’t tell me shit!” Bokuto declares to the entire street.

“Please, come in.” Sugawara pulls a metal grate over the window just in case and, looking at his team, summarizes, “They’re here.”

Tsukishima cracks his knuckles, nods and heads into the furthest corner of the furthest and only room.

***

“Here we are.” Kuroo smiles cheerfully from the threshold. 

He’s let in first— evidently as the one acceptable loss. After him comes in Yaku, then Bokuto. This time accompanied not by Shirofuku, but by a perfectly ordinary-looking man in a neat button-down shirt. Konoha Akinori, Tsukishima recognizes, another Afghanistan veteran.

After them Kai Nobuyuki appears, tall and carefree, like a Buddhist monk, and the choir boy Haiba Lev.

“Good evening.” Agent Shimizu is, as always, polite and composed.

“Have a seat,” Sugawara says at the same time as her, nodding at the kitchen table they’d dragged into the living room for the purposes of this talk.

Yaku sticks his right hand out, stopping Kai, and nods at the corner by the window. “So you’re the one in charge here,” he states, sitting down slowly, not looking away from Shimizu.

“Yes.” Shimizu’s tone is cool and controlled. “Special Agent in Charge Shimizu. I’m leading this operation.”

Yaku pointedly lays his gun on the table. Right by his hand. And then leans back in his chair and sighs. “Alright, Miss Shimizu.” He’s still frowning, but not enough to incite worry. “Let’s chat.”

“We brought a map!” Bokuto triumphantly shakes a folded piece of worn paper, moving closer to the table.

Yamaguchi picks up his laptop, because Bokuto seems ready to lay that map out right then and there, and he looks confused.

“Don’t ask.” Yaku rolls his eyes. “Lev, stop touching other people’s stuff.”

Tsukishima is polite. Tsukishima does not ask why Yaku almost forcefully sits Haiba down next to himself and forbids him from leaving the territory of the chair.

“What’s with your face, handsome?” Kuroo comes up close, like he’s about to put his hands on Tsukishima’s shoulders, but Tsukishima stands up in time and kicks the stool under the table, turning away. 

“I’m uncontrollably thrilled to see you,” he grits out. And then impulsively turns around. And that’s a mistake, because Kuroo’s still standing behind his back.

The room is loud, someone asks for the overhead light to be turned on, someone knocks the table lamp onto the floor, everywhere people are preparing for things — and Tsukishima’s momentary hesitation is only noticed by Yamaguchi.

Tsukishima’s never had a problem ignoring anyone’s persistent affections. Except Kuroo never expressed any affections, he’s just tried to break through Tsukishima’s armor at any cost. And, despite the fact that his face is covered in scratches, his hair is stupid, and his accent is terrible, despite the self-confident expression permanently stuck to his face... Tsukishima turns that list over in his head and snickers.

“Hard not to see the joy on your face,” Kuroo agrees.

... Kuroo Tetsurou is handsome, but that doesn’t factor into this. Maybe it bothers Tsukishima a little more than if he were bald and cross-eyed.

“I suggest we start.” Sugawara’s voice could cut the Hoover Dam in half. Tsukishima turns away from Kuroo to sit in the corner of the living room.

“You’re sure no one followed you?” Shimizu asked. Although usually she prefers to control the situation silently and let Sugawara lead the negotiations.

“Shouldn’t have. We watched for that,” Yaku answers, almost indignant.

“And you know where they’re keeping the plates?” 

“The Cartel has a man who’s...highly religious,” Kai explains. “So we know where they’re keeping the plates.”

Sugawara raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Yaku grimly pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and admits, “You won’t like it.”

“I already don’t like it.” Sugawara sighs. “So?”

The little priest scratches his brow, like he’s still thinking whether or not he should tell them, and says, “They’re locked in Washijou’s safe, in his private office. On the seventy third floor of Hamaima Tower, one of the most expensive and high-security office buildings in Jakarta.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so the author keeps switching back and forth between first name last name/last name first name in reference to certain characters and I'm just gonna follow the original text and not bother to impose an external order on it. Does it make more sense for the american tsukishima to think of everyone by first name last name? probably! does "tetsurou kuroo" sound weird? also yes


	8. Chapter 8

“So.” Sugawara crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re suggesting we steal the stereoplates right out of the safe in Washijou’s private office? In his headquarters? In the center of town?”

“Why do you have a tone like we won’t be able to do that?” Bokuto asks, leaning against the doorjamb. He found a bag of chips somewhere and is now methodically emptying it.

“I’ll have you know, we swiped the sacred tablets from the Triad,” Kuroo reminds them, and Sugawara smirks.

“And after that we swiped them from you.”

“I just got distracted! I got lost in his eyes.” Kuroo points at Tsukishima, sitting at the opposite end of the table.

“Can you restrain him?” Sugawara turns to Yaku. “His...displays of attention to our colleague are uncalled for during this conversation.”

Yaku laughs, exhaling smoke, and gestures towards Kuroo with his cigarette. “He’s obviously a dumbass, and I do apologize for that, but he’s also the only one here who could come up with a viable plan for breaking into Hamaima Tower. He’s kind of fucked up,” Yaku concludes, “and it works.”

Kuroo crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Yaku skeptically. “I can’t tell if that was an insult or a complime—”

“Can you come up with a plan?” Sugawara interrupts, his entire demeanor demonstrating that he’s not here for jokes. Because trying to rob the Sunrise Cartel is not a joke. None of them would go into the fire if they’re not certain they’ll get what they want.

Kuroo transfers his calm, almost lazy gaze from Yaku to Sugawara.

“Yes,” he states simply. “I can think of how we’ll steal the plates from Washijou.”

“And what do we need for that?” Shimizu asks. 

She’s standing, leaning against the wall, and looking at him like she’s ready to follow all of his orders. And Kuroo smiles at her. “Just one thing.”

Tsukishima doesn’t know what he’s going to say yet, but he already feels an urge to roll his eyes.

“A wickedly clever plan.”

“No,” Yaku says, “we’ve had enough of that shit. Give us something reasonable.”

“Wait—”

“Turn off your inner god of planning, I said, and get to work.”

Judging by the map, Hamaima Tower is located almost in the center of the most expensive and elite region of Jakarta— Setiabudi. The Cartels’ headquarters take up the top three floors, and Washijou’s office is at the very top. When they start discussing how they’ll get there, Yaku grimaces and mumbles something about endless traffic jams.

“We could jump down there from a helicopter and bust through the roof?”

“No, Bokuto, we could not. That’s an idiotic plan.”

“Why idiotic! It worked in Cuba in 2011!”

The stereoplates are located in a safe underneath a reproduction of Egon Schiele’s “House with Shingle Roof” painting.

“It might seem like our biggest problem is breaking into the safe, but actually our biggest problem is everything else. Because we have Konoha Akinori!” Kuroo takes off an imaginary hat in front of Konoha. “Examine this person closely, he’s prepared to go into the fires of hell and sacrifice his life for you.”

Judging by how fast the smirk disappears off Konoha’s face, he’s not prepared for that after all.

“I thought Konoha Akinori was your demolitions expert?” Sugawara asks, confused.

Yaku smirks. “Familiarized yourself with our files?”

“Do I have a file?”

“Shut up, Lev.”

Konoha raises his eyebrows and looks over at Sugawara. “Yeah, I’m usually the demoman. But if the information we have about the safe is accurate, I’ll be able to crack it.” He smiles. “I tried a lot of different things while in service to the Empire.”

“Seventy three floors,” Yamaguchi says from the furthest corner of the table. He stares fixedly into the laptop screen, then pokes it with his finger, and Shimizu, standing nearby, bends towards the screen. “The only publicly accessible information is the data from the Urban Planning Department, I doubt that’s useful to us. But I can try to find out about the plumbing system—”

“And that won’t help us with anything,” Kuroo interrupts, leaning against the back of his chair. “You’re not the first wiseguy to try to crawl under the Cartel’s skirts that way.

Yaku growls distastefully, looking away from the monitor. “No metaphors today, please.” 

“I can’t do anything about my natural-born gift for storytelling. Did I ever tell you about the thing in Taiwan?”

“Oh, was that the time you escaped from those Argentinian dealers using Star Trek quotes?” Bokuto perks up instantly.

“Yeah. I still have a scar on my back from that.” Kuroo quickly glances at Tsukishima. “Wanna see?”

“No thank you.” Tsukishima’s actually unsettled by that level of brazenness. “And now that you’ve once again told us about something nobody finds interesting—” 

“It’s an interesting story. Bo, confirm!”

“I confirm!”

“Fantastic,” Yaku snaps, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and Tsukishima can’t remember the last time he felt this much pity for someone. “And how will this help us get the plates out of the safe?”

“Well, now you know you’re in capable hands.” Kuroo brushes his hair back, still staring intently into Tsukshima’s eyes. “In capable, very skilled hands.”

Tsukishima understands he’s talking like that to entertain everyone else, but every time he feels waves of embarrassment and irritation just wash over him. Every goddamn time.

“You’re unbearable,” Yaku decides.

“So how are we getting in?” Sugawara straightens up and crosses his arms again.

“I was waiting for that question, my beautiful audience,” Kuroo snickers. “Basically, there’s three main entrances to Hamaima Tower. And two back-up entrances. Total of five doors for us to choose from. But we’ll use the main ones."

“Great.” Yaku winces. “Why’d you decide that they won’t shoot us on sight?”

“Again you criticize before listening all the way through!” Kuroo makes a face at him. “They’re supposed to shoot us on sight!”

After a second’s pause Yaku nods and says, “Oh, of course. Why didn’t I think of that.” And finally loses his patience. “Kuroo, I swear to God, stop fucking around and tell us!”

And Tsukishima is for some reason certain that this is far from the first time Kuroo’s plans sound like a plan for a group suicide mission. His comrades roll their eyes in unison, and Haiba doesn’t even look up from his smartphone game.

“Yeah, okay, one second! Let’s start with the prelude. The bishop said there’s no security cameras in Washijou’s office. From that I conclude that— Yaku, stop stomping on my foot! Can’t you see I’m showing off in front of a cute boy?!”

Kuroo spears Tsukishima with a languid gaze, and instantly bursts into laughter when Yaku pokes him under his ribs.

“Your reputation is already ruined beyond repair.” Tsukishima smiles at him in a manner that’s both friendly and sympathetic, leaning back against his chair. 

Kuroo leans slightly towards him. “How unfortunate. But I already have a bad boy reputation, you know.”

“You have the reputation of an eccentric” — Tsukishima stops himself from saying “dumbass” at the last second — “who gets in the way of everyone else doing their jobs.”

“An eccentric someone in this room is  _ interested in _ .”

Kuroo never refers to him by name. The fact slips somewhere towards the back of his consciousness, and Tsukishima decides to think about that later.

“And who might that be? Haiba?” He suggests.

Haiba in the background looks up in surprise, clicking his game off.

“Try again!”

“Jesus Christ,” Yaku explodes, grabbing his head with his hands. “Shut up already!”

“Weak.” Kuroo laughs.

“Where’s your willpower, Yaku?” Bokuto adds.

Tsukishima blinks: these two seemed to have been waiting for Yaku to finally lose it. Only now do they look fully satisfied. And Yaku, it appears, is going to explode and leave a decently large crater in his wake.

“Morons, both of you,” he hisses. “Go to hell, I’m taking a smoke break.”

Tsukishima himself would’ve happily sent this entire circus to hell, but he, unfortunately, does not smoke.

“Break time?” Sugawara raises his eyebrows and looks at Shimizu. She nods approvingly, straightening her glasses, and then looks across to the opposite side of the table.

Horrible things are happening there. Bokuto and Kuroo surround Yaku, blocking him from the door, making jokes about nicotine and short people having small lungs. Tsukishima so badly does not want to be in the same room as them, but he just sighs and stands up from the stool.

While everyone else goes outside to smoke, the only people left in the room are Yamaguchi and Kai. Tsukishima goes into the kitchen— in this humidity he’s constantly thirsty, and there’s some mineral water somewhere in the fridge. If Bokuto didn’t drink it already, of course.

He’s pulling a bottle out of the fridge when he senses someone else has walked in. He looks over his shoulder.

Jesus fucking Christ, why?!

“Easy with the face.” Kuroo leans against the doorjamb with no intention of leaving. “I don’t bite.”

Tsukishima straightens up and slams the refrigerator shut, and then remembers his conversation with Terushima.

Lies. Kuroo would bite his head off and not even notice.

“I don’t doubt it,” Tsukishima answers instead. The bottle was packaged maliciously. He can barely screw the cap off. He pours himself a glass of cold, bubbling water, throws the bottle on the bottom shelf of the humming refrigerator, slams it shut again and takes a sip. “I’m sure you’re expected outside.”

“Me? Oh yeah, they’re nothing without me.” Kuroo scratches a scab on his chin and then smirks. “And what if I prefer your company this evening?”

“Surprisingly enough.” Tsukishima pretends to be shocked. “For some reason I’m not flattered.”

“You should be.” Kuroo sits down on one of the chairs by the wall.

The kitchen withtout a table in it seems too spacious and even dirtier. All the unwashed corners and peeling linoleum corners are suddenly visible.

“So what did you say your name was, again?” Kuroo spreads his legs out and interlaces his fingers.

Tsukishima’s not offended, but his self-esteem takes a slight hit. He tries to hide his face in the glass. Takes a few gulps of mineral water, feeling cooler.

“I didn’t say.” He leans against the countertop behind his back.

“So tell me.”

At first glance it sounds mostly harmless. But Tsukishima’s reasonable adult nature is at war with his stupid, childish stubbornness. He looks at Kuroo for a few seconds, uncertain about answering.

Finally he says, “Tsukishima. Kei Tsukishima.”

Kuroo blinks in surprise. “Huh. Thought it’d be something...American. Your parents?”

“Americans.”

“You know Japanese?” He nods in the direction of the living room. “Your little one does. And both your big bosses too.”

“Special Agent Shimizu’s specialty is Indonesian. And I studied it in college, but didn’t need it. Haven’t left the States for work,” Tsukishima explains, considerably calmer. Oddly enough, when Kuroo’s not being a smartass, it’s actually possible to talk to him. Tsukishima sips some more water and for some reason adds, “Econ major.”

“Stanford?”

That, Tsukishima didn’t expect.

“Why did you assume that?” He barely refrains from saying “How did you know?”

Kuroo shrugs his shoulders and runs a hand along the back of his neck — Tsukishima doesn’t realize he’s following the movement with his eyes — and, slowly looking around at the kitchen cabinets, answers, “Your self-esteem.” He nods to himself and looks up at Tsukishima. “It’s so easy to bother you and you love being smarter than everyone else so much, you’d never have forgiven yourself if you hadn’t gotten into the best college in the country. To shine academically or not to shine” — he smirks — “and any idiot knows which one’s better.”

This makes Tsukishima feel even less comfortable than when Kuroo’s joking around and goofing off.

“You think,” Kuroo continues, regarding him lazily, “that you’re so controlled and particular, people around you must find you difficult to read or understand. But actually,” he smirks, but this smirk doesn’t foreshadow a clownish joke. This smirk makes Tsukishima want to run out of the kitchen. “Actually, you’re really irritable. And short-tempered. And it’s easier than anything else to hurt you, because your sore spots aren’t unique, they’re the exact same sore spots as most of the people around you. Self-esteem,” he counts on his fingers, “Pride, sense of your own importants, some childhood trauma... A classic blend, only thing more common is a Bloody Mary at a goth night. And trust me, I’ve been to those parties.” He sighs. “And drank that Bloody Mary.”

In the kitchen, it seems, a ringing silence hangs suspended, despite the conversations and noise under the windows. Tsukishima’s fingers, pressed into the edge of the plastic countertop and already pale, ache.

“You think you know me so well.” Tsukishima fixes his glasses, winning himself a few moments without eye contact.

Kuroo goes for him specifically because he understands exactly what makes Tsukishima tick — not exactly a new thought, Tsukishima’s already considered that. And still.

“Did you get the metaphor?” Kuroo Tetsurou tsks disappointedly. “I...”

“Already met tons of people like me,” Tsukishima interrupts and frowns. “Disregarding my moments of...individual quirkiness.” He hesitates for a second. He doesn’t like discussing himself with strangers. With Kuroo— worse. “So if you see people like me every day, why the hell are you so fixated on me specifically?”

“Well.” Kuroo scratches his chin thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t say I give every kid with a self-esteem problem as much attention as you, so don’t worry. At least because most of them aren’t even half as cute as you are.”

Tsukishima’s lost. Their conversation seems fairly serious — Kuroo’s not evading or making jokes like usual, and it seems like he’s focused on a reasonable discussion and— welp, here you go. Again.

Tsukishima’s still convinced his come-ons for the general audience of everybody and unstoppable flirting are intended to distract and entertain everyone else. Tsukishima’s not even sure if Kuroo’s gay— people like him, provocateurs and clowns, just want to make a show out of whatever’s most exciting.

“So, you’re interested in me, like... sexually?” Tsukishima asks straight-out, tilting his head slightly.

It’s not like the answer will change anything, but Tsukishima’s trying to understand. He’s never been concerned about his own attractiveness, but his attractiveness in Kuroo’s eyes suddenly hits a nerve and intrigues him.

Kuroo looks at him for a long time before answering. Rakes his eyes over his face, neck, arms, stretching out of his shirt’s short sleeves, then lower towards his hips and legs. He doesn’t smirk or even smile when he brings his eyes back up to Tsukishima’s face and says, “Yes. Quite.”

Tsukishima gulps.

Kuroo has a heavy gaze, but nothing Tsukishima can’t deal with. And then he runs his tongue along his upper lip and smiles. And immediately bursts into laughter, throwing his head back. “Oh, you should’ve seen your face. Priceless! Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

Tsukishima would trade him for anything — would even pay extra, just take this fucker as far away from him as possible.

Time, which had seemed to slow down, speeds up to its usual rate again.

Coming here, he’d been prepared for any job-related difficulties, including shooting at thugs — theoretically. But he hadn’t been prepared for the fact that he’d need to stay in constant contact with someone whose goal is to knock him off balance at all costs.

“I think Agent Shimizu’s calling me.” Tsukishima raises an eyebrow, like, interpret that as you will. Finishes his drink, puts the glass in the rusted sink and turns towards the door.

“It’s rude to run away like that.” Kuroo looks at him like a lion lounging in the sun, and, realizing the joke didn’t cause a reaction, pouts. “I’ll get mad and stop talking to you.”

“That’d be very useful for our meeting today.” Tsukishima stretches his lips into his most polite smile, straightens his glasses with a sweaty palm and adds, “Feel free to get mad.”

“Ow.” Kuroo laughs briefly, tilting his head to one side and exposing his neck, shiny with sweat, to the yellow light of the buzzing lamp. “Are you this harsh with everyone? Or do you just not like me?”

“Judging by your colleagues, not a lot of people like you in general.”

“Don’t follow their example,” Kuroo flaps his shirt against his chest in an attempt to cool off. “They just don’t get it.”

And at that moment Tsukishima realizes, he’s frozen in the middle of leaving the kitchen and looking at the man who definitely gets it.

Kuroo’s sitting on a stool almost at the doorway. There’s no door there, just empty hinges. He exhales at length through stretched lips, like normal people do in hundred-degree weather, and, unable to stand it any longer, pulls his shirt off his shoulders.

“I prefer to draw my own conclusions.” Tsukishima shoves his hands in his pockets to discreetly dry his sweaty palms. He doesn’t even know why he’s still continuing this conversation. They’re going in circles, just trading phrases like a ping-pong ball. I say something snappy, you catch, retort, and throw it back — I’ll pick it up.

Nevertheless, here he is— standing here, halfway to freedom and not going anywhere.

“Oh, and what is it you’ve concluded about me?” Kuroo asks, leaning his back against the wall and throwing his head up. “I’m terribly interested.”

Under his shirt there’s traces of recent brawls: bruises spreading across his arms and wide scrapes like someone had dragged him across asphalt.

About you, Tsukishima thinks, staring at the bruises on his shoulders, nothing. But about your colleagues — lots of good things. They’re good judges of character, for instance.

Without the colleagues and their sympathetic glances it is in fact a lot easier to interact with Kuroo. And without Agent Sugawara, periodically calling for them to stop flirting.

First of all, Kuroo calms down and isn’t as irritating, second of all, it’s easier to talk when it doesn’t seem like even the sympathetic people are laughing at you, and no one’s accusing you of flirting. Because Tsukishima does not flirt. Tsukishima parries. Although, not at this moment.

“Nothing new, you already know everything.”

“That you like me? Yeah, I’m aware.” Kuroo nods, satisfied, like, yeah, that’s a thing, say something new for a change.

“Five minutes ago we determined that  _ you  _ like  _ me _ ,” Tsukishima lifts his head slightly and raises an eyebrow. “Let’s stop at that for now.”

He smiles — Kuroo smiles in response.

He has a sinewy, muscular body — Tsukishima notes with the corner of his eye the soft relief of his muscles, gleaming in the electric light. When Kuroo moves his shoulders slightly, like he’s stretching them, Tsukishima sees how the muscles flex under skin.

He gets up from the chair and Tsukishima instinctively takes a step back — even without the table, the kitchen instantly feels overcrowded. The illusion of safety disappears. What kind of safety, Tsukishima tries not to think about.

“I like,” Kuroo says softly, taking a step forward after him. He’s a tiny bit shorter, but Tsukishima understands that doesn’t give him personally any kind of upper hand in the exchange at all. “Your ‘goodbye.’ Very Freudian, don’t you think?”

Tsukishima takes a deep breath, frantically searching for a response. Kuroo has dark, deep brown eyes. In the shadows they look almost black.

The silence is suddenly shattered by Yaku’s loud voice. “Bokuto, call in those fuckers!”

Tsukishima subconsciously considers himself too normal to be one of “those fuckers,” so when Bokuto peeks into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe, it’s an unpleasant discovery for him.

“Hey ‘those,’ let’s go!” He cackles cheerfully. “Come on, sweethearts, enough fighting and flirting.”

People seriously interpret this situation like that? Tsukishima really needs to work on his personal brand.

He steps out, forcing Bokuto to move to the side and press his entire two hundred twenty pounds of muscle to the doorframe.

After the dim kitchen, the living room seems unbearably bright.

***

“...So we just have to pick him and someone who can infiltrate one of the offices next to the Cartel without problems. That might be dangerous.” Sugawara taps a tense rhythm into the table.

“This will require some serious camouflage.” Kuroo furrows his brows, concerned, and only the fact that his whole body is turned towards Bokuto communicates that they’re about to drop everyone’s collective IQ into the negatives again.

“False mustaches, yes.” Bokuto nods fervently. “Or maybe even a beard.”

“Glasses and a bowler hat.” Kuroo scratches his chin. “And also—”

“And also you’re going to shut up now, or leave.” Yaku grinds his teeth.

“Only with Bo. I’d go anywhere with you, bro.”

“Lovely,” Yaku spits. “How about you go for a walk into the Cartel’s headquarters and get us their password?”

“They’ll be recognized the minute they get into view,” Konoha drawls.

“They should part their hair on the other side of their face, then!”

“I don’t even have a hair part!”

“Anyway,” Sugawara sighs heavily, interrupting yet another act of this circus and/or conflict. “In these past four hours we did manage to discuss almost all of the details of the plan. Just two points left. Let’s get back on topic!”

In those aforementioned four hours Sugawara behaved like the only sane man in this entire chaos. For example, Yaku and Kuroo could argue about anything, putting a wrench into the discussion. Haiba with a childish tactlessness told everyone the truth to their face, and at some point it started to sound offensive. He also annoyed his own boss Yaku, and Yaku himself caused bouts of annoyance in Konoha. Kuroo alone annoyed everybody, but combined with Bokuto turned their secret gathering into a farce.

Shimizu’s disappeared somewhere from Sugawara’s desperate gaze, leaving him to deal with the Jakartan underworld one-on-one.

“The person who’ll crawl into the vents,” — Sugawara points in the direction of Yamaguchi’s computer, which had a map of Hamaima Tower’s ventilation system pulled up — “and the person who’ll help Tadashi hack into the computers at the Cartel’s offices.”

“Me!” Hinata jumps up. Not for the first time today. “I can do it!”

Konoha tsks skeptically. “Well, at the very least, you’re too big for the vents. Yamaguchi-kun,” — Japan-raised Konoha refers to them the same way Haiba does. Tsukishima’s a little uncomfortable with it, as is Yamaguchi, who’s about as Japanese as Tsukishima himself — “What’s the diameter of the shaft?”

“Fifty centimeters, which is about twenty inches.”

Everyone’s quiet, looking at each other like they’re trying to mentally calculate their shoulders-waist-hip measurements. Bokuto, instantly out of the running, says, “It’s gotta be either the little blondie or Yaku.”

Not waiting for the end of the sentence, someone starts snorting and cackling. First Kuroo, choking from a sudden onset of laughter, trying to cover his mouth with one hand, and then Bokuto — from a powerful hit to the solar plexus. 

Sugawara stares in amazement at the bent double Bokuto wheezing “Bro, dude, guy, come on,” and then at Yaku, shaking his hand out irritably.

“Who’s the little blondie?” He asks in a perilous tone, menacingly glaring around at everyone present.

Yachi goes visibly pale, and then stands up from her chair, letting her presence be known. Almost everyone turns to face her, and she stretches into a thin strand, looking somewhere above their heads.

“Fifty centimeters is very little,” Konoha says musingly, teetering on the back two legs of his chair. “Even such a miniature girl would barely go through. Neither Shirofuku nor Suzumeda could turn around in there. She’s our only option.”

He looks at Sugawara, but he seems uncertain.

“That’s not—”

“I can do it,” Yachi interrupts suddenly, in a thin voice. “Really. I understand the task and believe that it’s,” — she gulps — “within my capabilities.” 

She looks like a schoolgirl, with her tiny height and toothpick limbs, but they were in the same year at the Academy, and Tsukishima’s seen her results in the shooting range, and strength training, and her personal result in the group operation simulation for crisis situations. And from Shimizu he heard that Yachi’s spent the past year in the most volatile part of the Golden Triangle — in Laos.

“Well, since everyone’s in agreement about the blondie’s involvement, let us pick the final member of our super-quest.” Kuroo claps his hands.

Yaku shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Which you’re setting up for us again. For the second time, in three days.”

Kuroo rolls his eyes and says, “Listen. That was the only way we could’ve robbed the Chinese, why are you pouting? So what, they shot up the car! It’s still not yours, it’s the Church’s. Did the plan work? Yes. For everything else, blame that guy!” Kuroo nods in Tsukishima’s direction. “And, just like that, this is the only way we can steal the sacred tablets out of Washijou’s superduper safe. You wanna get them? Then let’s get them!”

Yaku looks at him for a few seconds, and then nods. The conversation returns to its previous direction.

“The floor below Washijou’s office has a branch of the local bank,” Kuroo says, turning one of the laptops towards himself. “Counting money, sitting with serious faces.”

“I’ll go!” Hinata declares boldly.

Yaku rolls his eyes. It seems like within the next twenty minutes the only place Hinata’s going to go is Hell.

“No, Carrot-top, sorry, but we need a smart face.” Kuroo shakes his head. Tsukishima is in agreement with him for the first time ever. “Maybe we could send your other blondie in there, he’s not bad at pretending to be smart.”

“Oh, nah,” Bokuto protests, “remember how he crawled under the bed?”

In the next twenty minutes Bokuto’s going to go to the same place as Hinata.

“But he’s office plankton, he won’t agree to an infiltration.” Kuroo waves off his own idea, inquisitively examining everyone else. Tsukishima’s insides boil with rage. “We need someone who can think on the spot.”

Marksmanship results: six out of ten. Strength training: the minimum required. Personal result in the group examination: the lowest score required to pass. Supplementary field training: none. Supplementary martial arts skills: none. A year analyzing bank fraud in Omaha.

“Hey, big boss, maybe you could—”

“I’ll go.”

“What?”

“I’ll go,” Tsukishima repeats, looking Kuroo dead in the eye.

He, like everyone else, stares at Tsukishima through his bangs for several seconds, and then smiles with such meaningful mysteriousness it’s almost palpable: you agreed because I said you wouldn’t.

“Eeeexxxxccceellleeeennntttt,” Kuroo stretches every vowel. “What an astonishing level of dedication to the job and willingness to do anything for the sake of the final outcome!”

In his eyes, fire-bright letters spell out, “You know I’m not talking about duty or work, I know we’re not talking about duty or work, and together we both know that you’re doing this because of me,” and his mouth spells out something entirely different. 

“After our clever little boy gets the passwords, we won’t have a lot left to do. Bokuto and his group will distract everyone below, the guards will all race there. Tiny girl...where is tiny girl? Oh, there she is. You’re so small, it’s hard to even notice you.” A nod at Yachi. “She’ll crawl through the vents and turn off the thermal radiation detectors, and then Konoha’ll steal our ticket to a happy life. In the event something turns off the beaten path, I’ll be waiting on the roof, but seriously, perfect plan, professional team, what could possibly go wrong?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what could possibly go wrong inDEED. (a lot of things. brace urselves)  
> also I've made a point to change the measurements to american units when it's in tsukishima's pov or a secret service character's talking because. he's american here and also I don't know how long fifty centimeters is actually  
> my normal writing comfort zone is G-T rated lightly romantic comedy so uh. sexual tension difficult but I'm trying. I'm trying so hard  
> next chapter will be more... M-rated so it might take longer on account of me getting flustered and also having to google all the sexual terminology in russian h a h a.... WE'LL GET THERE.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rating warning: phone sex, not explicit but getting there

Everything goes wrong.

Before, Tsukishima thought he didn’t like to work independently, without supervision. But there are times when it’s actually better to go without direct orders from above. And above right now — very literally, because he’s sitting on the roof — is Kuroo Tetsurou.

“Tsukishima, I have nothing to do here.” And he’s bored.

Tsukishima takes sheets out of the printer, straightens his stack of paper, tapping it against the table, and smiles stiffly at a client passing by.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that,” he whispers politely. He puts the stack of papers under one arm, picks up his cup of tea and makes an effort to appear like an average employee of a notarization services company. “Please don’t clog the radio feed, if you’d be so kind.”

There’s still an hour and a half left until the end of the workday. Until the building empties and the only people remaining are the security guards and the Cartel’s people— four more. Until the plan kicks into motion — five hours.

Tsukishima has five hours to find four computers, connect them to the network and let Yamaguchi extract the five-character access codes from them. And not get caught.

Kuroo has another five hours to nag him to death through his earpiece. And Tsukishima doesn’t know which of these things annoys him more.

***

The safe which, according to the Church’s information, contains the stereoplates, demands “careful handling.” When they ask Konoha what this means, he explains with his hands.

“This model uses two access codes.” Rocking back and forth on his chair, Konoha holds up two fingers. “One— the normal code, meaning the one Washijou uses. The second is our lucky break. Twenty-five digits the safe requires after rebooting the security system. And the security system reboots when the stabilization system goes crazy.”

To drive the stabilization system crazy, according to Konoha, would be to explode the fireproof safe door using half a pound of TNT. “Enough to make it nervous, but not enough to kill me, considering the office is like twenty square meters and I need like six or seven.”

When Tsukishima hears this, it seems to him that Konoha’s either insane or a maniac, and then he remembers Konoha’s file and everything falls into place. Of course, TNT, what else could it have been. What’s Jakarta without a little dynamite?

According to Konoha’s plan, by the time he breaks into Washijou’s office, he should have all twenty-five digits. And for that to happen, they need Tsukishima.

The twenty-five-digit security code is located across five computers in the Sunrise Cartel’s headquarters. These codes are saved on a server, and the people working at those computers without access to that server have no idea what kind of gold they’re sitting on.

They don’t, but the combined forces of the Church of Saint Lascano, Bokuto and Co, and the US Secret Service do. And all thanks to Yamaguchi.

The difficulty lies in the fact that it’s impossible for an outsider to just walk into the top three floors of the building belonging to the Cartel. They have their own security system, including guards and cameras, and the main priority of their operation is to successfully rob the biggest criminal syndicate in Indonesia without revealing their identities. Any face visible on those cameras belongs to a potential dead man. The cameras on the other floors of the tower were disabled by Yamaguchi without any problems.

“But if we can’t get to the Cartel’s computers” — Yaku, getting progressively more gloomy proportional to the difficulty of their problem, is now smoking without bothering to go outside — “then why the hell are we bothering at all? And stop making mysterious faces, I’m not here to play games.”

“I can work around this problem.” — and so, Yamaguchi becomes the hero of the day.

Having connected to the Hamaima Tower system from the tech support van, parked next to an electrical substation, Yamaguchi patiently leads Tsukishima to the necessary computers.

“I wrote this program in the Academy...” Yamaguchi rubs his nose shyly, catching himself divulging unnecessary information, and adds, “Nothing special, the program opens up remote access and allows tunnelling across an encrypted connection.”

The problem, as Yamaguchi put it, is that to connect the computers they need devices with a stable internet connection, and several at once. Yamaguchi’s program is a hacker program, aimed at quickly solving simple problems on remote computers, and doesn’t allow for connecting to multiple ports. One use, one connection, and after their wildest dreams are made real, the program automatically wipes any trace of its existence from the computer's registers.

“But they can still track the tampering.” Yamaguchi scratches the back of his head. “So each new data interception has to be done from a different computer.”

Tsukishima nods. With every passing second he regrets his involvement in this exponentially more.

“I’ll pick out the most convenient computers for you,” Yamaguchi reassures him. “But I can’t guarantee that they’ll be in easy places.”

Then what the hell does “convenient” mean? In practice it all ends up worse than Yamaguchi promised, but better than Tsukishima expected— his natural pessimism made him examine the darkest reaches of the worst possibilities so, from his perspective, he’s ready for anything now.

The computers are located on the seventieth floor.

If that was all, Tsukishima wouldn’t have had ten passes with different names in his pocket. He could thank all of his life experience for the fact that this is his first undercover infiltration.

Infiltrating this specific department is the optimal decision, because there’s a veritable flood of foreign employees and international clients in here. They’re visible here and there: someone’s trailing after his employers, someone’s cruising from office to office, someone comes for half an hour, someone lingers for a long while. Everyone’s united by badges labeled “Temporary Pass”, marked with any one of a wide range of occupations and a photo taken in the hall after turning in a ton of documents.

Or, like in Tsukishima’s case, a snapshot printed out at a stationery store three districts away and glued on at the entrance. The description on Tsukishima’s badge identifies him as “Sawada Ryoga, interpreter, Advanced Translations.”

Based on his own personal opinion and ignoring whatever the earpiece mumbles every so often, he’s going to set a new record. In the nearly five hours since the start of the operation, he’s got three hacked computers and fifteen digits under his belt. Although, one time he had to hide for twenty minutes under the desk adjacent to his target — the owner of the computer came back from his lunch break at a very inopportune moment.

“Listen,” Konoha exclaims into his earpiece, and Tsukishima’s just happy to hear someone else’s voice for some variety, “you’re really awesome at this. I mean like, lying successfully, looking confident and following a plan on location without any prep is super hard. Like, seriously dude. Really cool. I heard,” — he smirks — “our priest was praising you, but you didn’t hear th— Shit, Yaku, stop yelling!”

And clicks off. Tsukishima smiles briefly to himself.

The next target is easier than sitting frozen for twenty minutes under a desk, but harder than everything before that. Yamaguchi said the fourth computer should be in the office area where the bureau of elite real estate sales — the company Tsukishima just infiltrated — keeps their VIP conference rooms. According to an overheard conversation, the conference rooms are only booked by management and only for meetings with people ready to pay at least several million for an apartment.

Tsukishima sinks into a leather couch in the big waiting room with the most unflappable attitude possible, and takes out his phone. Yamaguchi had sent him the firm’s schedule. Breaking into the database of an average office isn’t much of an issue compared to the Cartel’s servers, and Tsukishima carefully looks through the list of companies scheduled for today. If the clock on the wall is to be believed, the meeting with a German company started forty minutes ago, but that doesn’t worry him.

What does worry him is this:

“Well, did you miss me? I hate to imagine what I missed.”

He’d rather spend another twenty minutes hiding under a desk.

Tsukishima gets up from the couch and heads straight to the pretty girl at the reception desk.

“Good afternoon,” he says in English with a slight German accent. “I’m from Bundesverband der Dolmetscher und Übersetzer.” Obviously, his badge says something entirely different. But people don’t look at badges if you make eye contact when you start talking to them. “The meeting was supposed to start twenty minutes ago, I’m very late. Didn’t expect there to be such terrible traffic in Jakarta. Ich bin zum ersten Mal hier. Verstehen Sie mich?”

Looking at her face it’s clear she understands jack shit.

“I had no idea you spoke German. So many hidden talents.” Kuroo’s having fun with this. But Tsukishima’s trying to stay calm.

The girl smiles understandingly, not paying any attention to the badge, asks him to wait a minute and calls someone on the phone.

“What else will you surprise me with, I wonder?” Kuroo asks immediately.

They haven’t known each other long enough for Tsukishima to have a problem with that.

“Cooking? Knitting? Lack of a gag reflex?”

No comment. Tsukishima should be proud of his poker face.

“Or maybe you...”

Kuroo doesn’t have time to finish.

“You’re from Band... Bunder... Damn!” An out of breath Indonesian in a business suit runs out to meet him. Despite the office chill, he’s sweating.

“Bundesverband der Dolmetscher und Übersetzer.” Tsukishima nods.

“Didn’t think they’d send someone else, but thank God! Come, come, we have a total...” He bites back a swearword.

“Or maybe you’re really from Bundersverbandwhatever,” Kuroo concedes. Tsukishima can practically see him nodding and blowing his bangs out of his face.

Thinking about Kuroo while undercover is exactly what he needs to fail. But Tsukishima doesn’t plan on failing. So he focuses on listening to the words of — quick look at the badge — Yusuf Halim. He’s blabbering, trying to bring Tsukishima up to speed as fast as possible. When he brings Tsukishima into the hallway full of conference rooms, Tsukishima quietly tugs his badge off and hides it in the pocket of his slacks.

“You need to talk to everyone and fill out everyone’s forms separately, examples are on the table. Right now your client is Mr. Kugler.” He mangles the German name so much Tsukishima can barely guess it. “I hope your superiors explained everything to you already? Utmost politeness, legal questions will be resolved later, you just need to help them complete the documents. Fifth door on the left.” He wipes the sweat off his upper lip and nods further down the hallway.

If perfect plans always perfectly became reality, this Yusuf Halim would’ve gone his own way, but he keeps watching, so Tsukishima has to open the white door in front of him and walk into the office.

“Guten Tag,” he greets, and the lock clicks behind his back.

Mr. Kugler turns out to be a man with thin brows, big eyes and a weak chin. He nods in response and stands, Tsukishima shakes his hand across the table. The employee speaks to him in English, so he doesn’t need to know the local language, which means he can play this role perfectlyand then go and finish what he’s supposed to do. The clock above the smartboard indicates that it’s 19:43. There’s still more than an hour to go until the official end of the workday, meaning he’ll finish everything, barring any unexpected occurances.

“Mein Name ist Ryoga Sanada. Heute werde ich diese Dokumentation zu ausfüllen helfen, herr Kugler.” Tsukishima pulls out a chair and sits down opposite Kugler.

“Herr Kugler,” Kuroo’s voice comes through the headphones, stretching each soft German R into a long growling sound. “It’d be very sexy, if it wasn’t some random dude’s name.”

Kugler takes the first form, picks up a company pen and looks questioningly, stopping at the first question. The document is in English. It’s unclear how anyone could live in this time and not know English, but Tsukishima’s not here to judge. Hopefully he remembers all the necessary vocabulary, or else he’ll look like a loser. And Tsukishima doesn’t enjoy looking like a loser.

He reads, and then translates. “Ihr Name, Ihr Vorname. Also...” He points to the row below.”

“Your rendition of the German R sounds simply breathtaking,” Kuroo cackles mockingly.

Fantastic, now could he just shut the sound off and enjoy it alone?

“...and the series and number of your passport. Followed by your cellphone number with international area code,” Tsukishima finishes, without changing his tone. While Mr. Kugler writes, he lets himself look out the window.

A pause. He wants to catch his breath, but it’s too early for that. He’s still two computers and an unknown number of hours of fraying nerves away from a break.

“Ooh and ah,” Kuroo drawls happily. “Are you sure you’re from Miami?”

Ah, Tsukishima thinks darkly, I understand everything now. Well, it was stupid to assume the Church didn’t have their own Yamaguchi to find out everything about everyone. Although why he’d bothered to remember information as useless as the birthplace of a random agent is a mystery. Tsukishima, of course, knows exactly why he’d bothered, and he’s pleased about it. At the same time, he’s annoyed with himself.

“The next blank is your date of birth, and then your marital status.”

“I was in Miami once.” Kuroo falls into nostalgia for some reason. “Girls in short shorts, blazing sun — gorgeous. Fun, parties, bright colors. Germany would suit you better.”

“Do I have to indicate children?”

Tsukishima has no idea what these papers are about, but convincingly makes a face to indicate that this isn’t his first time in a situation and says, “If there’s a question about it.”

“These serious faces, wow. Charts, rules, and other nonsense,” Kuroo lists. Is he implying something about Tsukishima? “I’ve been to Germany three times, but didn’t really manage to see anything: eighty percent of the time I was getting shot at.”

What a surprise. To spend time with Kuroo and not try to shoot him is unthinkable.

“Although I did have sex with a German chick,” Kuroo admits casually. “Which is why I got shot at the second time. It wasn’t worth it, you know. I mean I’m used to getting fired on for a reason, but that was just rude.”

Tsukishima for some reason thinks about how it must’ve been for that German girl: what if she still remembers that night with a scruffy clown and sighs deeply, while he’s telling everyone how meh the whole thing was.

Mr. Kugler is looking at Tsukishima, tapping his pen on the table. Tsukishima looks down at the sheet, reads the next line and translates. “Criminal convictions or injunctions. Indicate if there are any.”

Mr. Kugler nods and starts writing, carefully blocking out capital letters.

“I was drunk, she wasn’t really. She wanted me, I didn’t want her really, and then she was under me and I can’t understand: are all German girls this bland, or did I just get unlucky? To deduce a pattern I’d need to sleep with at least two more, but you’re from Florida, so you’re useless to me here.”

Tsukishima stares at the back of the diligent Mr. Kugler’s head for a few seconds, opens his mouth — doesn’t say anything, just inhales — and, to give his warm hands something to do, rubs his tired eyes under his glasses.

“But really, I’d sleep with you.”

Wait, what?

“And if it’s above average, maybe even more than once.”

The conversation in the kitchen floats to the forefront of his brain. Tsukishima bites the inside of his cheek, and then says in a slightly different voice, “You missed a blank. Current residential address according to your visa needs to be indicated here as well.”

“Judging by how languid your R sounded just now, you’ve been taken in.” Kuroo seems to be expecting a reaction and, logically, isn’t getting it, because Tsukishima can’t speak with him out loud. And that’s upsetting, because he knows exactly how he’d answer right now!

He doesn’t have an answer at all.

“You want me.” The stupid joking tone vanishes from Kuroo’s voice entirely, and Tsukishima misses it desperately: better dumb jokes than this laughably low half-whisper. “Denying it is pointless.”

Kugler passes a filled out form to Tsukishima and takes a blank out of the small stack. Although, it’s not even really a stack- five sheets of paper, six at most. This first sheet took seven minutes, seven times six is forty two, he doesn’t have that much time, and there’s also —

“I looked through your file. Miami, September 27th, Libra.” He pauses, and then adds with a light casualness, “Problems with the lie detector upon admission to the Service, six foot two inches, gay.”

Tsukishima understands where this conversation’s going. Wants to say something like “Just because I like men doesn’t mean I like you.” Because he doesn’t like Kuroo, he’s annoyed by Kuroo. Not discounting the fact that possibly (hypothetically) Tsukishima really wouldn’t mind trying it.

“I’ve always preferred girls to guys, but as an exception...” He lets out a harsh laugh. Kind of a general put-down, like he’s willing to carve out a space in his tight schedule for poor Tsukishima.

“Here you have to select a type of insurance policy,” Tsukishima enunciates patiently, tapping the blank check boxes, “and indicate it with a check.”

“Are you usually on top or on the bottom?”

“And if I don’t know what to choose?” asks Kugler.

Tsukishima wants to laugh, but that’s just nerves.

“Skip that step,” he says patiently and reaches for a bottle of water.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter to me.” Between the sound of drinking water Tsukishima hears quiet laughter in his ears. “I’d bend you right over that desk you’re sitting at right now.”

Tsukishima involuntarily runs a hand along the white wood tabletop. Glossy, smooth — they’d probably have a hard time, his clothes would make him slide around and— and... what?

“What about here?”

No, did he seriously just think about sex with Kuroo? Not that the fact in itself is shocking, but it’s painful how easy it is for that guy to attach his fantasies to Tsukishima’s mind.

Kugler looks up with his light eyes, Tsukishima tries to focus on his kind of silly face and come up with an answer besides “God, just write whatever you want!”

“Write down your insurance information.” Tsukishima fixes his glasses with an unsteady hand and wipes his sweaty palm against his pant leg.

“If you’re feeling unwell...” Mr.Kugler starts, frowning.

“You know, people like you usually don’t like to show strong emotions even during sex — always closing their eyes and turning away...” Kuroo continues.

Tsukishima closes his eyes for a second.

“I wouldn’t let you do that,” he smirks in satisfaction. “I like it loud. I want to look at you all flushed and screaming yourself hoarse...”

“... Herr Sanada?”

“... as you twist and arch your back and beg for more.”

“And at these bullet points underline: here if you have any write-offs and what specifically,” Tsukishima runs down the page mechanically, trying to filter out everything Kuroo’s saying and in actuality filtering out Kugler’s input. “And here if you don’t have any.”

“I’d make you bite my shoulders...”

Tsukishima sees that there’s only one space left until the end of the second page, and with trembling fingers pulls the third blank form towards himself. 

“Jesus,” Tsukishima says in German, but Kuroo, judging by the cackle, understands everything without a translation. His head feels horribly heavy, there’s a lump in his throat and a pressure in his stomach.

That’s when he realizes he’s barely breathing, and inhales deeply. Exhales.

“Oh, how you’d moan.”

But doesn’t exhale, and just sits there with shut eyes and expanded lungs.

“Write the number,” — he loudly pushes air out through his nose — “of the previous write-offs here.”

“You’d be moaning my name...”

Tsukishima drags a cool palm across his neck, and a wave of tension leaks down his spine, dissolving into goosebumps at his knees.

“While I fuck you into the table,” Kuroo whispers.

Tsukishima licks his dry lips and stands up from his chair with a jolt. The chair legs creak loudly, Kugler looks up sharply, sees something in Tsukishima’s face and nods understandingly. He’s probably seeing something extremely off.

“Please excuse me,” Tsukishima says, twisting the cap off a bottle of mineral water, “my colleague will be here in ten minutes.”

He sips greedily, mouth around the opening of the bottle, and throws the door open with such force it hits against the stopper and almost closes on its own. He stays standing in the middle of the hallway, desperately wanting to slide down a wall.

“And then...” Kuroo starts breathily.

Tsukishima looks under his feet at the green tiles — there’s something calming in the starkness of the black pattern — and squints.

“... I would...”

“Maybe that’s enough?” Konoha’s pitiful voices comes through the earpiece.

Please don’t say that...

“Oh, hey?” There isn’t a drop of shame in Kuroo’s voice. “You heard all that? Now I’ll be too embarrassed to look you in the eyes.”

Something tells Tsukishima that’s bullshit.

“This is our internal channel for the four of us, you asshole,” Konoha scolds. “The poor girl took her headset off five minutes ago.”

“Well, I didn’t notice.” 

What, he’s seriously not ashamed at all?

“Tsukishima?” Konoha asks in his previous tone of voice. “Hey, Tsukishima.”

“My apologies.” He puts all of his strength into regaining control of his normal tone of voice again. “I turned the microphone off.”

“Oh really?” The rise and fall of Kuroo’s voice indicates his deep disbelief.

Tsukishima insists, though. “Did I miss something?”

Konoha starts to answer, but Tsukishima can’t hear him.

“Ohhhh, I’ll just go over everything you missed again, then.”

“Kuroo, don’t you dare.”

“Basically, it was like—” 

“Kuroo, I’ll tell Yaku everything.”

“But Yaku already knows this story! So, one time, when I was in Frankfurt am Main, I got caught in a firefight...”

The gunfire starts when the clock shows 00:04.

Tsukishima has an excellent reason to blame Bokuto and his gang — with the exception of Konoha, who spent the entire evening frying on the roof with Yachi — for being late.

“It’s starting,” Sugawara signals. He, Yamaguchi and Yachi have a separate channel for communication, but the Church doesn’t have to know about that.

“Aaand here we go,” Yaku sighs in Tsukishima’s other ear, practically at the same time.

Actually, according to Kuroo’s plan, Tsukishima should’ve been out of here a few hours ago. All five computers should’ve been hacked before the end of the office building’s workday, and Tsukishima himself should’ve left at 8 P. M. with the sea of office plankton.

“Understood,” Tsukishima tells both of them and presses his ear against the door leading to the corridor. Sixty-ninth floor, darkness and the sound of elevators working nonstop: that’s the security guards descending from almost every floor. A small army of law-abiding citizens, and among them, a few Cartel people required to check what’s going on below.

When they leave, Tsukishima will come up to the seventieth floor, go down a service hallway — no cameras — to the security office and break into one of the working computers. And hope that no one’s going to come back at a bad time and shoot him through the head.

Tsukishima shuts his eyes for a moment, when after a few minutes the sound of the elevators fades and the floor fills with silence again. He pushes the door open.

The fifth computer turns out to not be connected to any servers shared with the one on the floor above. The only way to connect to it is to crack it.

Yamaguchi tells Tsukishima this in a distressed voice at hour seven of the job.

“Stay there,” Sugawara tells him after conferring with the others. “We don’t have any other choice. Without the last five digits Konoha can’t open the safe.”

Tell him something he doesn’t know.

“Don’t be scared,” Kuroo says into his earpiece, and Tsukishima doesn’t understand how his nervousness can be determined in an unconnected line. “They all went downstairs, hundred percent — you can’t leave Bo unattended, and once they figure out it’s him they’ll send all their forces to keep him out of the building.”

The original plan seemed simple: Tsukishima gets the codes and passes them on to Konoha. Konoha, Kuroo and Yachi climb onto the roof a few hours before go time using rope access cords. At the start of the operation, with the bulletproof van pulling up to the building and the ensuing firefight, Yachi climbs into the ventilation system and gets into the secretarial office of Washijou’s empty quarters, to turn off the heat sensors and let Konoha drop down to the window and make an opening big enough to crawl through. That’s how they’ll avoid the guards behind the armored, soundproof doors of the secretariat, who won’t be permitted to leave their posts. Konoha explodes the safe, and even if the soundwave makes it past the two armored doors, Yachi can handle the guards in the secretariat. They grab the stereoplates, grab Kuroo, and leave. Bokuto and company skedaddle before the Cartel people manage to understand anything and drive out of the city, because with that level of mobility and firepower the Cartel’s going to be chasing them around the world for another decade or so.

And here’s Tsukishima, who needs to break into the Cartel’s floors undetected and get out of there alive.

“You get the code,” Sugawara says seriously. “And you get outta there, understand? Yachi’ll do everything herself.”

“Yeah,” Tsukishima answers, barely audibly. He has to break into the outer security, get the data, descend several floors, and from there take the elevator to the third floor and leave while Bokuto is attracting all of the gunfire, attention and ovations.

Sounds like a plan. Another one.

The hallway is flooded with bluish nighttime lighting. Tsukishima can see everything perfectly. The thought that he can probably be seen perfectly too pounds in his head. He swallows his worry and quickly turns onto a narrow service staircase. At this hour there’s no one in here anymore — the night shift for the cleaning company starts in two hours.

“Where are you?” Kuroo’s voice sounds in his ear. Tsukishima doesn’t want to talk, even knowing that theoretically there shouldn’t be any guards on the floor he’s going to (they’ll either be below or two floors above him at the entrance to the secretary’s office).

“I went up,” Tsukishima answers dully, stopping in front of the door.

“Check behind the corners,” Kuroo advises. “If there are any reflective surfaces, watch those. If you’re noticed, don’t hesitate and strike first.”

In fistfights, Tsukishima’s even worse than in a firefight. But he’s not going to tell Kuroo that. Disregarding the fact that it’s the first time in a long while Kuroo’s voice doesn’t have a single happy note in it. He’s not stressed, speaking calmly, but not jo—

“Or you could always offer to blow them.”

Welp, never mind. The moment you think Kuroo might be capable of acting like a normal person, and immediately — haha, what a foolish assumption that was.

“Tsukishima,” Konoha comes on the line. “I’ve attached the explosive. Waiting for the last digit and it’ll go off.”

By this moment, Yachi’s already infiltrated the secretariat and turned off the televisions — judging by the discussion on the main line, there was no one in the office. After that Konoha, going down a floor on a rope access cable, carefully cut an opening into the window glass and snuck inside. Now it’s all on Tsukishima.

Barely waiting for Konoha to sign off, he blurts out, simultaneously trying to understand what door he’s looking for, “I could always tell them you’re sitting on the roof of this building.” His whisper sounds deafeningly loud in the quiet of the closed building and slightly humming lamps. “I’m sure at least one of them knows you and dreams of murdering you.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Kuroo says gently.

“Let’s bet on it,” Tsukishima answers just as gently. And cuts the connection.

Literally a few seconds later he regrets it— the quiet becomes deafening, and his stretched nerves force him to wait for someone to come out from around the corner. But Kuroo doesn’t hook him back in, and Tsukishima didn’t cut him off mid-word to come running back first.

“Security point Matahari Terbit Ltd., no unauthorized entry,” the brass signplate declares. The door is absolutely identical to most of the doors in this office building. This is a backup entrance, not checked by security cameras. There’s no one inside. No one is going to kill his defenseless self. Nothing to worry about. Go in, connect, get the code, get out.

Never ever sign up to be part of Kuroo’s plans again — after several hours of waiting, Tsukishima promises this to himself for the hundredth time.

He opens the door, but there’s no one inside. The relief is so intense, Tsukishima closes his eyes for a few seconds, before rushing to the necessary computer.

“Yamaguchi,” he says hoarsely, connecting to the line. “I’m in place. Connecting to... the network. One sec. Ready,” he exhales, connecting the cord. Yamaguchi hums something approvingly in response, and Tsukishima hears him tapping his keyboard at a supersonic speed.

In the room, the emergency lights are on, blazers are piled on chairs — evidently everyone really did rush downstairs as fast as possible when Bokuto’s group showed up.

All of this Tsukishima notices while Yamaguchi cracks open the server. In his head a voice chants “faster, come on, faster, faster,” because his nerves are stretched to their limits. There’s a nagging sense that someone’s going to walk in any minute. Someone from the Sunrise Cartel, armed to the teeth, while Tsukishima’s got a bunch of wires and a portable router for his weapons. Tsukishima understands he’ll only really calm down once he’s outside the building again. And he really, really wants that to happen as soon as possible.

And, almost by request, in that moment Yamaguchi blurts out, “Yes! Got it! Got the code!”

Tsukishima feels another wave of relief, he yanks the wires out of their ports and, picking up the router’s box, hurries to the exit.

Nothing could be simpler. That’s probably why nothing works out.

The moment before Tsukishima slips out of the security room, he’s engulfed in total darkness.

***

“What happened?”

Tsukishima stops still. The sudden darkness hits hard: he can’t see shit, moving is impossible, crushing silence all around.

“Hey!” Tsukishima whispers, forcefully gripping the cold metal door handle. “What—”

“The power went out in the whole building,” Kuroo says into his earpiece. “Looked intense even from outside, wow.”

Intense? Tsukishima can tell you what’s intense around here.

“Can you feel the way out? Your eyes should get used to it soon, just go forward. We even benefit—”

“We don’t benefit,” Sugawara pops in, and Tsukishima doesn’t like the tone of his voice.

“Agent Sugawara?” he whispers tensely. And then understands and says at the same time as Kuroo, “The elevators!”

Obviously, the elevators won’t work without electricity!

“Maybe,” Kuroo asks, “they run from a backup generator?”

“They do,” Sugawara confirms, but there’s nothing reassuring about his tone. “But this isn’t an accidental power outage, you understand that, right? Yamagu—”

Yamguchi bursts into the conversation, talking quickly and anxiously. “Someone turned on the emergency fire prevention system from the main security checkpoint. That turns off the power source to all of the generators, including the backups. The entire building is without electricity now. The only thing working right now is the cameras, they have a separate power source specifically for situations like this. They’ve switched into night vision mode. The only functioning elevator with a separate generator is the personal elevator of the head of the Cartel, but without Washijou, Ushijima or Tendou’s fingerprints it won’t go.”

“I have plenty of Tendou’s prints on me,” Kuroo jokes darkly. “I can try and put my ass on the detector, would that work?”

“Shut up,” Yaku comes online. “Is it just the elevators that are blocked?”

“Elevators and all the automatic doors. Meaning,” Yamaguchi’s voice cracks. “The armored doors into the secretariat and Washijou’s office won’t open while all of the mechanisms in this building are in panic mode. I can’t turn it off— I need direct access for that...”

“Tiny girl,” Kuroo says, “can you climb back into the vents and get to the roof? Konoha will pick you up. As we understand now, you won’t get through the door to him now.”

Tsukishima can hear Yachi exhale, determined. “I’ll drag something over. The ceilings are tall here, but I can climb up.”

Tsukishima listens with half an ear, thinking through possible escape options for this situation.

Going up won’t work — even if they take down the cameras, there’s security by the doors to Washijou’s office, so he won’t be able to get to Konoha and Yachi.

Seventy floors. Around half an hour of running down stairs.

“Tsukki.”

Yamaguchi’s voice makes all his insides turn over. He uses that voice when everything’s going to absolute shit. Tsukishima doesn’t want to know and in any other situation would’ve just sprinted down, but he’s standing here in complete darkness, in an office where at any moment armed guards could return, and even bad news is information that can help him figure out where to go from here.

“Tsukki,” Yamaguchi repeats, very focused. His voice only stops trembling when they don’t have any more time to panic. Meaning, everything is very bad. “There’s Cartel guards coming up from the sixty seventh floor towards you. They didn’t get all the way down because of the blackout and are coming up by the staircase.”

There’s a moment of silence. And then several voices at once, forcing Tsukishima to squeeze his eyes shut involuntarily.

“Hide,” Yaku says. “Find any room on a floor lower, not on a Cartel floor, and hide.”

“The Cartel probably turned the emergency system on. So they’re ging to start blocking doors and checking rooms...”

“How many?”

“Six.”

“We have Yamaguchi, we can avoid them at the—”

“Does he have time to get to the sixty eighth floor?” Yamaguchi asks. In his other ear is Sugawara. “Shit!”

Evidently, the answer is no.

Tsukishima’s hands are ice. His eyes still haven’t adjusted. There’s no windows in the security room, so there’s just dense darkness in the space. Not a single button, not a single backlit screen, not a single indicator light. Every second he spends standing here, danger moves closer.

And in his hands is a box the size of a cassette player.

“Is the hallway on the east side under surveillance?”

“It’s...it’s a service hallway, so no.”

“Excellent.”

“Kuroo, what are you—”

“Hey, glasses!” Kuroo says so loudly it tickles Tsukishima’s ear. He jerks. What’s he doing, why did he freeze? “Don’t go catatonic, okay? Head to the east corridor. Freckles, find him a niche of some kind, so his two meter height doesn’t shine like the Eiffel tower on Christmas.” 

Tsukishima squeezes the door handle. What?

“Kuroo, I swear to fuck—”

“That won’t really help—”

“Tsukishima, move!” Kuroo barks, and he starts like someone pushed him in the back.

He doesn’t understand what kind of plan they have, but Yamaguchi’s voice uncertainly says, “From there straight, then left, and you can go through the supply closet.” And he tries to move as fast as possible in the complete darkness. There are no windows in this hallway either, so he has to move by feel. Red and yellow circles keep appearing and disappearing in front of his eyes.

“Konoha, you’ll pick up the little one when she crawls out?”

“Yup. I’ll blow up the safe in two minutes and leave, will wait for her.”

“Explain to me,” Yaku demands in a dangerous voice, “what the fuck you’re going to do.”

“Well, right now,” Kuroo says casually, and Tsukishima listens closely to the sound of his voice, trying to guess his idea. “I’m attaching a rope to some crap on the roof, if you’re so interested. Planning on crawling down on it.”

Tsukishima tries to feel out a passage to his left and doesn’t completely understand what Kuroo’s talking about. And then it hits him. Not just him, either.

“You’re going to crawl down from the roof of a seventy three story skyscraper?” Yaku asks very calmly. “On a rope? With no safety backups?”

Kuroo chuckles. “When you say it the whole thing sounds a lot cooler than it really is.”

“Are you a dumbass?!”

“Are you an idiot?!”

He and Yaku yell at the same time, but Yaku’s allowed and Tsukishima isn’t, so he cuts himself off, clapping a hand over his mouth. His heart starts beating frantically, and out of the darkness come voices and footsteps, and he swings the closest door open and hides behind it.

“No,” he hisses. “Jesus Christ, listen, you’ll kill yourself. Stay on the roof! This is suicide!”

“Listen, Kuroo, this is totally insane—”

“What, you think Bokuto’s going to approve?” Konoha hides his worry with a laugh. “Listen—”

“Kuroo!” Yaku agrees. “Seventy stories! Windchill! You’ll break the sidewalk with your face!” 

“I can see that, actually,” Kuroo announces. “I’m bending over the edge of this roof right now and seeing it, just so you know.”

Tsukishima imagines those seventy stories down and one rope and can’t believe it. He can’t understand how much a person could ignore their own self-preservation instinct.

“Don’t even think about it!” Yaku roars. “Did you hear what I just said?! Stay on the fucking roof! Tetsurou!”

“You’re crazy,” Tsukishima says weakly. “Don’t do this.”

“Freckles,” Kuroo says, totally ignoring everyone. “Is Blondie in the east corridor now?”

“I...” Yamaguchi recovers. “Tsukki, are you...”

Tsukishima whispers furiously, “I’m not going anywhere. And you’re not going anywhere. Don’t even think about it!”

“Okay, who bet that I wouldn’t get him to like me?” Kuroo laughs. “Look at all this genuine worry! Freckles, what’s up with the Cartel dudes?”

“Kuroo—”

“Sixty ninth floor.”

“Fucking listen, asshole!”

“I said no,” Tsukishima raises his voice, even though the guards are already a floor lower than he is, and that makes his nerves feel like someone’s winding his hair around their fist and pulling. “Why the hell aren’t you listening? Kuroo!”

“What’s taking so long?”

“Tetsurou, I swear to fucking God, stop! Don’t get involved, I’m se—” 

“They’re checking the rooms closest to the staircases. I’m sorry, Kuroo, but—”

“Tsukishima,” Kuroo says, interrupting everyone else, and in his voice there is once again no trace of humor. “East corridor, closest staircase to you, right now.”

“No,” Tsukishima exhales. “Fucking no!”

“Oh, you can curse.” Another joke, but his voice is still serious. And distracted: Kuroo seems to be busy with something on his end of the line and is joking as an afterthought. “You can show me more when I get down to your level. These voyeurs keep ruining the mood with their yelling. So...”

Tsukishima freezes. He can practically see it: how the small figure on top of a giant skyscraper prepares to slide off a roof to hang on one single rope.

“Remember me fondly, y’all!”

And Tsukishima turns off the channel. He’s not ready to witness a death today.

“Yamaguchi.” He opens a door. There’s no noise in the hallway yet. “What side are they on?”

“Checking the rest of the rooms on the sixty ninth, then going up both staircases. There’s a person by each staircase. You’ve got like a minute and a half.”

If he stays in place, they’ll notice him.

He can go closer to the staircase, try to hide and, if they skip him and go up higher, get onto the stairs. If it works it’ll still be seventy floors down, but with a greater chance of getting out than now.

His eyes are slowly getting used to it, although there’s still no light. It feels like time is stretching, like rubber — it seems to take ten minutes for him to get to the east corridor. The service hallways go around the perimeter of the whole floor— interconnected narrow paths with occasional doors. You can only get in there undetected from one blind spot, but it won’t have any advantages besides gaining access to the Cartel’s security point full of armed guards. All the exits from the hallway are monitored by 360-degree surveillance cameras.

“They’re gone from the cameras,” says Sugawara’s voice. “Heading towards you.”

He can’t get caught on camera. All the exits out of here are either deeper into the floor or into dead ends. This isn’t a headquarters, it’s a mousetrap.

The moment he thinks it, Tsukishima hears — definitely hears — voices and the loud hissing of someone’s walkie-talkie. He glances from door to door, but in the end estimates the distance to the exit and squeezes past a cleaning supply cart, crouching down behind it.

“Tsukki,” Yamaguchi sighs into his earpiece, but someone’s dull voice on that end — possibly Shimizu — cuts him off.

The voices, talking in a mix of Indonesian and English, grow more distinct, and the footsteps sound clearer. Tsukishima listens closer, trying to breathe as quietly as possible.

“...What, they’re still shooting? It’s been like ten minutes, goddamn.”

“That wild motherfucker, Bokuto,” his conversational partner chuckles. “And I know no one’s going to tell us anything, but I’m sure Ukai’s plates are in the boss’s cabinet. Why do you think Bokuto Koutarou’s breaking into our building? That’s why Saito cut the power...”

“Kahya, what’re you looking at?” The voices drift up the hallway. Three of them, Tsukishima determines, so there’s three more by the other staircase.

“There’s no one here,” a voice grumbles in Indonesian, and Tsukishima, who only did a short course on Malay once, barely deciphers the words. “What’re we—”

“I agree,” someone answers in English. The voices are slowly moving in his direction. “How many people are in this hellhole — three, four? This is bullshit, how are they planning to pull this off?”

Someone pauses right next to him. No... right next to the turn.

“Let’s go!”

“One sec, let me just check over here, since we’re such responsible emp—”

If they see you, Tsukishima remembers, don’t hesitate, strike first.

Strike first.

The words ring in his head like a mantra.

The steps are closer and closer, and Tsukishima grips the router in one hand, intending to not lose time and knock out at least one when he sticks out. Maybe then he’ll have a chance.

“To the north side!” The radio suddenly bursts into life, an unknown rough voice crackling. “Quick, over here! I think we found him!”

“Fuck!”

“Come on, move!”

The shoe almost peeking out from behind the cart vanishes. The guards aren’t walking away — they’re running.

Running in the opposite direction of Tsukishima.

A few seconds pass, and Kei realizes he’s been barely breathing this whole time. He inhales so deeply, his lungs hurt, and slowly exhales through his nose.

It passed. God, he’s still alive.

He takes a breath and, stifling the heartbeat pounding in his ears, plans to stand—

“And why’re you still sitting here? Waiting for them to come back? Let’s go!” A figure comes and grabs him by the shoulder.

And they run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well That Happened Huh  
> translator's note: tsukishima always refers to kuroo using the formal you (like how in french there's vous/tu russian has the same kinda thing) I just thought I'd mention that


	10. Chapter 10

Tsukishima realizes it’s Kuroo right after he tries to smack him in the nose with the router, but Kuroo grabs his arm and yanks him upwards.

Adrenaline still courses through his blood. Tsukishima’s running after Kuroo and feeling something incredible, something like admiration. His feet are almost slipping off the stairs. It seems like they’re making so much noise someone will discover them in an instant. 

The flight of stairs ends, and they’re sprinting across the floor at full speed. Everything’s flying past his eyes in a blurry streak, until Kuroo stops and pushes him through a set of glass doors. Then he runs further, almost knocking over some chairs, and Tsukishima runs after him, until they stop after yet another corner.

In front of them are floor-to-ceiling windows with a panoramic view of the neighboring skyscraper — there’s nowhere left to run.

Grabbing the nearest tabletop, Tsukishima tries to catch his breath. He’s not used to sprinting like this and is breathing hard and fast now. Kuroo takes deep breaths in through his nose, but isn’t suffocating.

But the most surprising thing is the fact that he’s alive at all.

“You,” Tsukishima says hoarsely, “don’t look like a body dropped from the seventieth story.”

“Scared I’d left you widowed?” Kuroo chuckles.

They’re standing close together, and Tsukishima feels: Kuroo’s ice-cold, the cold is practically radiating off him. Tsukishima looks lower and sees dark stains on his own shirt, then shifts his gaze towards Kuroo’s hands. In the dim light of the skyscraper opposite them, he sees Kuroo’s palms — just shredded skin and blood. He catches Tsukishima’s gaze, spins his palms around and smirks with an expression like “this is whatever.”

“Almost missed the floor I needed.”

And deliberately wipes his hands off on his own shirt without even wincing.

Tsukishima feels relieved. And suggests, “Let’s pretend I’m not looking.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Kuroo starts shaking his hands, grimacing and hissing loudly. Tsukishima automatically glances at the door: people are still looking for them and might find them sooner or later. 

“Don’t freak out before you need to,” Kuroo tells him. “We’re in the director’s office, it’s password-locked. I asked your tech wizard to keep it open like two hours ago, just in case. See how careful I am?”

“If you’re so good at navigating this place, why’d you spend half the day on the roof?”

“I’m so good at navigating this place  _ because _ I spent half the day on the roof. And don’t roll your eyes.” Kuroo rolls his own eyes and leans against the same table. “What a mess, huh?” Kuroo almost smiles at him. “Not used to these, are you?”

Tsukishima doesn’t want to smile in response, doesn’t want to comment on this and most of all doesn’t want to participate in any messes. Not the Secret Service, not Kuroo.

“How did you...” Tsukishima tries to ask, but can’t finish the question right. Think of this? Manage to accomplish it? Plan everything so quickly? Save me?

Kuroo understands correctly. What surprises Tsukishima the most is that his answer doesn’t have a drop of bragging. He talks like he does something similar every day.

“Jumped off, shot the glass and rolled in. Then threw my shirt over my head to avoid the cameras and flew to you on the wings of love. By the way, while you were hiding, I heard Konoha blow up the safe. He turned on the main comm line specifically for that.”

Kuroo smirks, Tsukishima can’t do anything about himself and smirks as well.

“And how mad did everyone else get?”

“Oh, guess. By the way, we’re gonna have to deal with that too. I switched off after the explosion — my eardrums needed a break. So right now we’re either getting vilified or mourned. So, count of three?”

Tsukishima flicks the comm on without waiting for “one.”

“...Turn me on already!” Yaku’s shout comes through. “You, two dumbasses, are you still alive?”

“Yaku, were you, like, crying?”

“From grief that you didn’t fall,” he snaps, but there’s relief in his voice. Tsukishima looks over at Kuroo: he’s smiling almost normally, hearing his boss yell at him. “If I find a single gray hair on my head tomorrow, I will drag you back to this fucking tower and push you off myself, understand?!”

“What’s happening over there?” Sugawara asks, businesslike.

“We’re about to go down,” Kuroo answers. “Where are those losers who didn’t manage to catch me?”

“You’re on the sixty-eighth floor now, they’re still on the seventieth,” Yamaguchi informs them. “I’ll tell you if the cameras catch them. But you should hurry.”

“Why didn’t Yaku know you were alive?” Tsukishima asks quickly, covering the mic for a second.

Kuroo seems to be somehow pleased by the gesture: he covers his own and whispers conspiratorially, “Well, I turned my mic off before jumping.”

So at the same time as Tsukishima.

He keeps looking at Kuroo until he realizes he’s spacing out.

“What?” Kuroo squints uncomprehendingly, surprised, probably, by such open attention.

Tsukishima blinks the feeling away. “Your hair,” — he straightens his glasses — “looks even worse than it usually does.”

“Stop flirting and get out of there!” Yaku grumbles.

“I’m not flirting, I’m assessing the damage,” Tsukishima parries. But there’s less than a yard between him and Kuroo, and they’re still looking at each other.

And then Konoha comes on line and his tone promises nothing good. “I have bad news,” he says so grimly even Kuroo seems uneasy. 

“We’re going to be disappointed?” he asks.

“Very,” Konoha confirms. “The safe is empty.”

***

The safe is empty.

That’s the phrase that overwrites all of today’s efforts. Tsukishima feels a faint prick of disappointment, although he shouldn’t. Since no one could’ve predicted that Washijou wouldn’t have stored the stereoplates in his headquarters and slipped his employees disinformation.

“I’ll kill Fukunaga,” Yaku grumbles, and Tsukishima gets the sense Yaku’s covering his face with his hands. He turns to Kuroo. Kuroo looks completely done.

“Fuck your fucking sacred tablets,” he spits, throwing all of his nonchalance to the wind and turning irritable. It would’ve been interesting to observe these metamorphoses if they had time. But they don’t, because the guards could come down at any second.

“I ordered Bokuto’s guys to get out.” Yaku doesn’t pay any attention to Kuroo’s sudden change of mood. “You too, ASAP.”

“Go first.” Kuroo nods, pulling his gun out.

He looks serious, and Tsukishima doesn’t even expect a twist. But, as it turns out, the sentence comes with a sequel.

“I’m trying to admire your ass.”

Tsukishima recalls today’s conversation — he’d successfully suppressed it with fear, adrenaline and trying to stay alive, but now Kuroo’s standing right in front of him. That’s all.

So Tsukishima just sighs. “You behave like an animal.”

“Oh, people are separate from animals on account of their sense of humor and erotic fantasies.” Kuroo smiles and opens the door in front of him. “And mine are both in working order. I think I showed them off very well today.”

He looks Tsukishima in the eyes with satisfaction and bites the inside of his cheek slightly, like he’s trying not to laugh. Tsukishima doesn’t even know how to act anymore, so he starts and runs past Kuroo.

But the bad news doesn’t end here.

Sugawara comes online with a characteristic click, once Tsukishima and Kuroo have already started down the stairs.

“Yachi couldn’t get back out on the roof — the emergency system blocked her.”

“Fuck,” Kuroo whispers. “Fuck! Why does everything always have to fall apart like this?”

“What floor is she on?” Tsukishima asks. “The top one?”

“She can descend to the seventieth, all the Cartel vents are connected except for Washijou’s office.” Yamaguchi appears. “But she’ll have to push a trapdoor out, and I doubt she’ll manage that.”

“I’m on my way.” Tsukishima turns sharply upwards. “Send her down, so — ”

“Already done,” Sugawara cuts him off. “She’s almost crawled to the exit on the seventieth, by the eastern staircase. I picked an opening closer to you.”

“Kuroo,” Yaku says skeptically.

“Wait,” Kuroo cuts him off and turns his earphone off. 

A second later Tsukishima does the same and says, “Leave.”

He’s absolutely certain about his words.

“What, are you gonna go there alone?” Kuroo raises his eyebrows. “Thought I was the suicidal one here?”

They’re looking at each other in the dark and, if he’s being honest, Tsukishima doesn’t have the faintest desire to take Kuroo with him.

“Judging by your expression, you’re either about to tell me we’re better off as friends or that I should fuck off downstairs.”

“Leave,” Tsukishima repeats stubbornly, fixing his glasses and practically pressing them into the bridge of his nose. “We’ll handle it. The Church can’t be seen by the Cartel, or it’s a one way ticket to a bad place.”

“You too, though,” Kuroo reminds him, raising his eyebrows again.

“I’m not planning on it. I’m just coming back for her.”

“Well then we’ll both just come back for her,” Kuroo snaps and, stepping around him, races to the stairs. Tsukishima frowns irritably and chases after him.

“Why are you protecting me?” he mutters under his breath.

They’re running up the stairs, but Kuroo finds a second to turn around and give him a mysterious smirk. “I like you, four-eyes. If anything happens, we’ll lure them into the stairwell and just shoot ‘em all. No witnesses, no problems.”

Sounds like a plan. And that’s the problem.

***

The back staircase has only one exit into the service hallway, but the exit to the main floor is close. And the ventilation shaft is right at the exit to the stairs.

Almost at the top landing, Tsukishima turns his earpiece on again and asks, “Yachi?”

“I’m here,” she whispers.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Kuroo cuts in immediately, but Tsukishima doesn’t feel irritation. “Let’s pull you outta there, yeah?”

“Great idea,” Tsukishima hisses at him perfunctorily. “How did you ever think of that?”

Kuroo doesn’t say anything, just pulls up a chair standing by the cabinet and stands on it. 

“And when did we decide you were going to do everything?” Tsukishima inquires.

Kuroo singsongs in a whisper, “When we found out you didn’t have a screwdriver.”

“Are you saying you have a screwdriver?”

“I’m saying, be quiet, or we’re dead.”

This whole conversation is barely audible, but Tsukishima’s furious Kuroo specifically told him to shut up. Kuroo’s pulling something out of his back pocket— hard to see what, in the darkness. Is it really a screwdriver?

“Pocket knife,” Kuroo whispers, like he’s reading Tsukishima’s mind. “Present from Bo to make up for the lighter.”

Tsukishima has no idea what lighter he’s talking about, and whispers in response, “Be quiet, or we’re dead.”

Kuroo laughs soundlessly and briefly, twisting out the screws almost by feel. They’re silent for a while, the only sound being the scratch of the knife against metal. Tsukishima keeps glancing at the door. For some reason, it’s scarier now than when he was alone. Maybe because he was alone, and everything that could’ve happened would’ve only happened to him.

“There, done.” Kuroo not-too-carefully yanks the grate off the wall, and the bolts clatter against the ceramic tiles of the floor. “Climb ou— don’t climb out!”

Tsukishima wants to ask what got into his head, but Kuroo suddenly jumps off the chair at full speed and slams Tsukishima into the floor towards the opposite wall against a metal filing cabinet. All the air is knocked out of Tsukishima’s lungs, but before he can breathe, curse or moan, he hears voices. And freezes in place.

The beam of a flashlight outlines Kuroo’s shape six feet away from him.

Gunfire breaks out instantly, and Kuroo ducks behind the cabinet, nearly stepping on Tsukishima’s toes. The voices get louder. They’re looking for Kuroo. Security guards.

“Fucking hell!” one of them yells across the whole hallway. “Kuroo Tetsurou! We’ve got a celebrity over here!”

“Mobbed by fans everywhere I go,” Kuroo grumbles. They exchange a look. “Sit here quietly, got it? I’ll deal with them and come back for you.”

But he doesn’t have time to respond: Kuroo pushes off the floor and leaps away from the cabinet.

“I have no idea who you are.” Tsukishima’s willing to bet that Kuroo’s smiling as he says this. “But I can give you an autograph.”

More gunfire. Tsukishima feels nauseous from the noise, but now he feels very clearly: he’s scared, but not of guns. If there’s something you can get used to after a few days in Jakarta, it’s the shootouts, so — not that.

He’s scared because their position is extremely precarious. And because, peeking out from behind his own shelter, Tsukishima sees a light-filled hall behind the doors and that Kuroo’s only choice is to jump over there to dodge the bullets. He’s definitely been caught on camera, and now the Cartel knows the Church was involved in this deal.

But before he can try to ask into the microphone what to do, Sugawara’s voice rings in his right earpiece.

“Kei, Bokuto just confirmed that a Cartel envoy’s heading into the district from the northwest. Probably Ushijima Wakatoshi.”

Another piece of news like a punch in the guts. Exactly what he didn’t want. Exactly what he so desperately didn’t need.

“We have to move faster,” Sugawara continues, while Tsukishima presses his back into the file drawers. He hears gunshots, curses, clattering and commotion. Now there’s four of them, in a few minutes there’ll be two more. And then everyone who’s downstairs. And Ushijima on top of it.

“We’ve been attacked,” Tsukishima says as quietly as possible, although the fight’s moved into the adjacent space. “Kuroo’s been spotted on the cameras.”

He peeks out again, trying to make out at least a silhouette.

“Shimizu predicted something like this,” Sugawara says, and Tsukishima can practically see him pursing his lips. “Grab Hitoka and leave immediately. Sixty-fifth floor, you have time to get there.”

Tsukishima knows they can get there. He’d wanted to suggest that to Kuroo, when they could’ve reached the sixty-fifth floor — the plan Shimizu had provided for Yachi and Tsukishima’s withdrawal if Konoha had obtained the plates. Stealing them out from under the Church’s nose and separating here, at this moment, to avoid sharing.

They might not have the plates, but the withdrawal plan could still work.

“What do I do with Kuroo?” Tsukishima asks, trying to make out something in the darkness, but the fight’s moved even further away and he can’t see anything at all. “Do I wait for him or—”

“Wait for him? Are you nuts?” Sugawara raises his voice. “Kei, Ushijima’s on his way! Have you read his file? Use the chance Kuroo gave you and run!”

“He said he’d deal with them.” Tsukishima’s trying to latch onto some kind of excuse, but instead starts panicking. What a horrible feeling. “Maybe he still can.”

“We don’t have time for that. Take Hitoka and leave, that’s an order!”

“But—”

“Kei,  _ immediately! _ ”

Tsukishima hears gunshots. He wants to hear Kuroo’s voice in them, wants to say, ask, warn — but any step beyond the threshold means the end of the operation and disobeying a direct order. The Church’s already framed itself. The Secret Service can’t make the same mistake.

Tsukishima knows. Tsukishima knows everything and even more: what Sugawara’s told him and what he has to do in this city — he knows everything and it’s wound into a very tight lump somewhere inside him.

Hitoka Yachi or Kuroo Tetsurou?

Tsukishima knows what he wants.

Tsukishima knows what he’ll do.

“Yachi,” he says into the microphone. “Get down, I’m heading towards you. We’re leaving.”

And when he leaves the hallway, stepping into the stairwell, the sounds of the gunshots seem very, very quiet.

***

The rental Peugeot creates clouds of dust behind it. Tsukishima sees this through the side window, where the twisted dead trees and jagged teeth of Jakartan skyscrapers stick up as well. The side window’s taped on with brown masking tape. Something’s clattering under the hood.

“Kei,” Sugawara calls him quietly, turning to the right. The car drives off the beaten road onto a narrow path of two ruts trod so thoroughly that grass doesn’t grow. “You’re staying in the car.”

Tsukishima opens his mouth to argue, but instantly closes it.

“That’s an order,” Special-agent-in-charge Shimizu says from behind, in a tone that brooks no argument.

Tsukishima hides his distaste for himself and his own fear with logic and facts — right now it’s better for them to hide out in Bekasi, so the watchful eye of the Sunrise Cartel doesn’t fall on them accidentally, instead of making sympathy visits to the Church.

The Cartel’s probably grabbed Kuroo, there’s a ninety nine percent chance he’s dead. And the Church will blow Tsukishima’s brains out if he dares cross their threshold at all.

The Church of Saint Lascano stands out: not the best place to attract worshippers, but ideal if your pilgrims are dealers. Not to mention you can admire the smooth Java Sea when you buy your opium. Most likely it’ll be the last thing Tsukishima sees if he steps out of the car. At least the landscape’s pretty here.

Maybe he’s exaggerating. Maybe they won’t shoot him immediately. First they’ll ask him why the hell he abandoned a man of the Church in the building, then squabble about how much of a betrayal that really qualifies as, and then — however luck may have it. Considering the fact that their priest clearly has... had, friendly feelings towards Kuroo, he won’t be very lucky at all.

The only chance he’d have is if the bishop himself decides to look into Shimizu’s eyes, but Tsukishima’s not the luckiest person.

“We have to hope,” Sugawara starts, pausing where the road turns sharply downhill. Gravel creaks under the wheels of the car, and dust from the not-fully-closing window fills Tsukishima’s nose. “That we’ll talk to them before the Cartel.”

“Talking” isn’t quite what the Cartel’s planning on doing.

“We’ll find out now,” Shimizu answers shortly.

The Peugeot reaches the top of the hill and stops. The Church is about a hundred yards away along a road flanked by low dry bushes.

From the hill you can see a lovely vista stretching into the distance.

And even from the window of the car Tsukishima sees it.

A slender motorcade gleams black under the low, blazing Indonesian sun.

Machine gun bursts pierce the air, and the sounds of gunshots echo for miles around.

Ten vans and dozens of automatic guns shoot up the Church of Saint Lascano, turning it into a sieve: the bullets beat against the stone walls and stained glass windows. Gold leaf flakes off, the cross over the door falls to the ground. Stationary machine guns, brought over in the cars, reduce the stone to rubble with armor-piercing incendiary cartridges. Through the narrow windows tongues of flame reach up. Smoke clouds up in black and gray swirls.

Tsukishima leans back in his seat a second before the grenades erupt.

Presses his hands into the upholstery.

“Let’s go,” Shimizu says, unshaken. “Faster. We have nothing left to do here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he's probably fine


	11. Chapter 11

They replaced the window. Three days go by before Kuroo ends up in the office of the head of the Sunrise Cartel. In those three days all traces of their break-in have been cleaned up: no shards on the carpet, no charred furniture, no sign of the fact that just recently the place was in shambles.

Against the backdrop of the window Washijou seems like a... Kuroo’s almost prepared to say “imposing” figure, but that’s not true. He needs another twenty centimeters in height and fifteen in the shoulders to be imposing.

“Tendou.” Washijou turns slowly. Evil overlords shouldn’t have eyebrows like that.

Tendou behind Kuroo’s back stretches lazily and mockingly. “Boss?”

Typical villains from typical movies. Kuroo wants to smirk, but his lip’s been split and it pulses with blood every time he tries to open his mouth.

“You’ll return in fifteen minutes.” Washijou walks over to the table and, judging by the sound, opens a drawer.

The resulting picture is worrisome: people don’t put a gun on the table for a heart-to-heart over a drink. Kuroo blinks, and his cut eyebrow pounds with pain.

“Should I bring a tarp?” Tendou asks cheerfully. Kuroo doesn’t turn around at the sound of his voice.

Washijou looks in his direction for a few seconds, slides his gaze over Kuroo, standing up straight, and then says, “No need. Call Ushijima and prepare a vehicle.”

Either they’re not going to shoot Kuroo now, or Washijou really doesn’t care about his carpets and doesn’t mind getting them dirty.

“Roger that, boss,” Tendou drawls.

The door closes, the click sounds ominous, like the bang of a gavel after the phrase “sentenced to death by lethal injection.” That’s fair. Kuroo doesn’t have any particular hopes for his future here. Especially now, after three days in the basement of Hamaima Tower, after cracks in his ribs and a bitten off ear on one of the guys who’d thought to make an unfunny joke. Let’s pretend Kuroo just doesn’t like bad jokes, and isn’t acting like a trapped wild animal.

“So, Kuroo Tetsurou...” Washijou starts meaningfully. He sits down in a huge leather armchair, dwarfing him further, and the light from the window paints the image in crimson tones.

The hopes for a bright future are gone. Kuroo has a great imagination, but unfortunately, it’ll go with him when they shoot him through the head.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” Washijou’s nose twitches disapprovingly.

“Nah, I’ve got something. The food here sucks, no hot water.” Kuroo smiles and licks a drop of blood off the fresh cut on his lip. “I’ve seen better service.”

He remembers Antofagasta, where he had a view of the Pacific ocean out of the window, grapes for breakfast and the wife of the fucker keeping him captive.

“...Although, I’ve been in worse situations as well.” When you’re in shock, sometimes a strange brazenness comes out.

Throwback to Mar-del-Plata circa 2014, where Kuroo was held for a week without food.

“I don’t doubt it,” Washijou tsks and steeples his fingers on the tabletop. “So, what brings you back to town?”

Maybe Washijou’s trying to understand when Nekomata got involved in the stereoplate chase. Did Kuroo stumble into the scheme, or was he an invited guest signed up to enter this talent show from abroad?

The safest option here appears to be — boring — the truth, and Kuroo, trying to find the best position for his entirely aching body, drawls, “Some negotiations with some of my partners ended poorly, so I decided to take a vacation and go home for a few days.”

Only problem is that even talking this vaguely, Washijou could guess who he’s talking about, make one phone call, and now Kuroo’s fending off his friends from Date yet again.

“You like making enemies, boy?”

“It happens.” Kuroo grins, and he isn’t lying at all.

“It seems you like it a lot, since you let yourself get caught here,” Washijou says emphatically, and thus they’ve reached the main topic of conversation.

Washijou’s calm certainty only confirms what Kuroo’d been thinking about for three days in the castle dungeons: the information about the sacred tablets was actually disinformation. A simple and genius plan, the likes of which Kuroo’s never mastered: set a lure concerning the location of the stereoplates and wait to see who shows up for the party.

Kuroo chuckles under his breath.

It’s hard to tell by looking if Washijou’s waiting for something or simply pausing for effect, but Kuroo decides to stay quiet. The conversation’s taking a dangerous turn. Nekomata had verbally agreed to step out of the plate race — and only a day after that Kuroo’s caught red-handed in the middle of an unsuccessful robbery.

Kuroo’s worked for Nekomata for ten years. You don’t even need to get into the intricacies of the Jakartan criminal underworld network, it’s obvious. Kuroo was here because of Nekomata and for Nekomata.

“So who were you with three days ago, Kuroo Tetsurou?” Washijou asks, carefully enunciating.

“Hey, do I look like the friendliest guy in Jakarta? I was working alone, of course,” Kuroo answers immediately.

Turned off the heat sensors, crawled through the window, blew up the safe, jumped off the roof, gave himself up to the security guards, all by himself, right, Tsukishima?

“Really now,” Washijou clicks his tongue, frowning even more, which seemed impossible. “You have a high opinion of yourself. Let’s stop at the fact that you couldn’t have possibly managed everything by yourself.”

“That hurts,” Kuroo says in an exaggeratedly wounded tone. He’d press his hand to his heart, so badly injured by such mean words, but the handcuffs are in the way.

“Who was with you?” Kuroo can barely hear a questioning intonation in Washijou’s voice. He knows.

Kuroo’s not even surprised. Washijou, to the great dismay of Jakarta’s crimina population, is very smart. And you only need to add two and two together: Kuroo, firing in a blaze of glory at the port, and Kuroo, robbing Hamaima Tower with the help of some anonymous benefactors. Even Lev would’ve gotten there.

“Excuse me, why are you asking questions you already know the answers to?” He raises an eyebrow and jerks his chin upward.

Washijou’s looking at him like “wrong kind of talking” and pulls his gun closer to himself, like he’s picking up a pen to doodle in the margins. A perfectly ordinary gesture.

“And what about Bokuto Koutarou?” Washijou asks.

And what about Bokuto Koutarou? Still as insanely cool as ever. Oh, someone similar was shooting up your first floor? It’s not like there’s a shortage of muscular dudes under two meters in Jakarta. You’ve got a few in your own Cartel.

“He was acting on my behalf,” Kuroo says, weighing every word. “He has no personal interest in this ‘harder-better-faster-stronger’ competition.”

“Of course.” Washijou pulls a glimmering cigarette holder out of an inner drawer and holds it up to the sunlight streaming into the window. “But three years ago all of the problems in Jakarta would pop up specifically because Bokuto Koutarou had started acting on your behalf.”

Kuroo stretches his stinging lips into a smile: yeah, he and Bokuto are pros at that.

“Alright then... Bokuto Koutarou will be next.” Washijou pulls out a long cigarillo, clenches it between his teeth and drags a match along the side of the matchbox.

“I’d love to see that.” Kuroo laughs darkly, not looking away from the tiny flame.

“Right after the Church of Saint Lascano.” A drag, smoke.

“I’d love to see that also.”

“Now that’s unlikely.”

“You don’t believe in my ability to put down Tendou Satori? I’ll get out of here before he drives me off the brink.”

“No, I don’t believe that someone would manage to kill your colleagues” — Washijou takes another drag — “a second time.”

Kuroo understands: nothing’s stopping Washijou from lying. The Church is a complicated rival. But he has no reason to lie, and seven decent fighters aren’t the kind of protagonist team that could successfully stand up to the Cartel.

The last thing he plans to do today is either die or believe Washijou Tanji. Now if only the crushing wave of panic inside him would calm down for a bit.

“Your friends are dead.” Washijou leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his stomach. “Because you got caught.”

And he got caught because of you know who. That’s what he gets for jumping off the roof of Hamaima Tower for his crush or whatever. Kuroo’s not mad. Kuroo will just send a bullet straight through his cute little head the next time he sees it.

“And Bokuto Koutarou will be dead too.” Washijou scratches his gray temples with one hand, and then looks at a point behind Kuroo. The door opens, Tendou coughs and starts cheerfully whistling a funeral march. “But you won’t see that either. Tendou, take him away. Watch him carefully and don’t take it easy.”

Tendou makes a welcoming gesture with his hand, like, don’t be shy, step up to the chopping block, please — and Kuroo has a colossal desire to throw him into the Java Sea again, except this time in cement boots.

“So, how’re we feeling this fine day?” Tendou asks quietly, and grins, horribly.

Kuroo ignores him, just smirks patronizingly, and then winks suggestively at the secretary glaring at them both.

In the doorway out of the waiting room loom some imposing backs in black blazers. Kuroo has to act fast and think faster. He’s going to be led out of the building by at least five people. Then Kuroo will end up in the same car as Tendou Satori and Ushijima Goddamn Wakatoshi. And Ushijima Wakatoshi is like Bokuto, but on the side of evil.

If Kuroo has a chance at survival, he has to grab it by the tail in this tiny room. He needs a plan. In his head Yaku’s voice says that all of his plans are total dogshit, and Washijou’s voice adds that Yaku is probably dead. Kuroo’s own voice in his head says there’s no way in Hell that’s true. They need something stronger than the Sunrise Cartel to take out Yaku Morisuke.

His dark thoughts and flirtations with the secretary consume him to the point that Kuroo slams his hip into the desk by accident, knocking a pencil holder full of pens and staples onto the pale tile floor.

“Please excuse me, I’m being driven to my execution soon, so I’ve lost control of myself, as you can see.” Kuroo smiles at her, glances at Tendou — it’s his fault he has to convey such regrettable news to the nice lady — and bends over to help pick up the litter, but he can’t really pick up anything with the handcuffs on. Kuroo tries to crouch, but Tendou grabs him by the back of his collar and drags him upwards.

“You’re funny. Get up, I’m on a tight schedule today.”

Four people lead him into the car: serious men, two guns per person, thankfully no automatics. And that’s against the defenseless, handcuffed and beaten poor prisoner. Kuroo would be smug about this if the last bit of news hadn’t knocked all of his desire to joke right out of him.

Although, wait a minute...

“Dang, y’all have so many weapons, you’re so cool. Do you give each other guns for your birthdays?”

After that he’s not led into the car — he’s shoved in.

Not much is pleasant about this situation.

“You like it when it hurts, don’t you?” Tendou laughs from the driver’s seat.

Kuroo hisses curses, when one of the guards crudely clasps his handcuffs onto something sticking out from the back of the seat he didn’t manage to examine. He ends up with his hands cuffed behind his back.

“Can’t lean back like this, huh,” Kuroo notes as the door slams. His mouth stings from pain and blood. “Not very comfortable, my dudes. This blows, actually.”

“Go ahead, talk all you want. You can’t talk enough before you die, anyway.”

Tendou, in the driver’s seat, and Ushijima, in the shotgun seat, are sitting directly in front of him. And there is so much joy in Tendou’s voice it’s obvious that Kuroo’s swift and inevitable death is a personal pleasure for him.

Kuroo decides not to let this go unnoticed. “You want to kill me just so I don’t tell all of Jakarta about how much you like to swim. Ushiwaka, dude, have you heard this story?”

Kuroo decides not to let anything go unnoticed.

The car starts.

If he doesn’t get out of this now, he’ll be killed. As Kai, who likes judging odds, would put it, he’s got a one in...forty, fifty? Some depressing statistic anyway. Especially since it’s unlikely Kai is ever going to calculate the odds for him again.

The realization crashes like a wave of ice in his head. He grits his teeth. Get out.

“Wakatoshi’s not interested.”

“What makes you say that, you sly bastard?”

“You’re gonna make it all up anyway.” Tendou slowly drives between rows of shining cars in the covered parking deck.

“Maybe I won’t be able to stop myself,” Kuroo spits out, “and add an ending where you die.”

“God, you look pathetic. Say, Wakato—”

“Tendou, your friend is a silent log, I doubt he’s going to answer.” Kuroo chuckles meanly. He can’t remember when was the last time he’d lost control so much he couldn’t even pretend to hide it. “Can he even talk? Or does he just destroy on your old man’s orders?” 

“Don’t get mad at him, Wakatoshi.” Tendou’s voice is relaxed, and it makes Kuroo’s teeth itch. “Our friend here thinks it’s essential that every single thought that’s built up in his brain gets released before his death.”

The BMW rolls out of the parking deck into a lively street. It’s noon, and the entirety of Setiabudi is standing still. To drive out of the city, it’ll take them at least a few hours— and Kuroo suddenly realizes he loves the killer traffic jams of Jakarta.

As killer as his current situation, huh.

Not the best play on words.

“And anyway, he’s sad,” Tendou refuses to let up. “He lost all his friends. At once. And it’s his fault. Don’t you feel bad for him?”

“I’ll kill you,” Kuroo informs him gently.

“But first, I’ll kill you,” Tendou answers in the same tone.

It’s hard to stay in place on this seat, but Kuroo knows if he lunges forward and tries to repeat the bitten ear trick, he’ll absolutely get hit and possibly shot somewhere.

“You should’ve seen how the building flew into the air at sunrise.” Tendou shakes his head. “Bam! Grenade! Boom! Machine guns!”

Of course, and the Church guys hid behind the pews and sat there covering their heads with their arms. Kuroo grins, squashing a wave of anxiety. Well, well.

“Get some new moves from your boss?” His voice traitorously turns into a rasp at the end of the sentence. “Kind of a shitty demotivator.”

“Your little guy,” — Tendou grins — “Yaku, got his hand shot straight through before he collapsed. You know how religious organizations are supposed to be transparent? Means everything’s perfectly visible after the doors are gone.”

Yeah, right, Kuroo thinks furiously, like Yaku’s going to fall before the Cartel. His pride is inversely proportional to his height — even without legs he’d still be standing and pretending he’s the tallest in the room psychologically.

“Very funny,” the Yaku in his head laughs sarcastically.

“I think you’re exaggerating,” Ushijima informs them, looking through the window in front of him.

Kuroo jerks his head up. First of all, that’s the first thing he’s said this whole ride, and second, Kuroo’s pretty much hearing Ushijima Wakatoshi speak in real life for the first time.

And the first thing he says is: I think you’re exaggerating.

“What, do you actually pity him?” Tendou asks disbelievingly, leaning against the side door and turning towards the passenger seat.

“I don’t pity the weak.” Ushijima shrugs his powerful shoulders. “But there’s no point in being proud of the Church massacre like you killed everyone single-handedly.”

Kuroo should be pleased, since even Ushijima’s putting Tendou in his place, but inside something breaks.

They really did it.

Ushijima Wakatoshi isn’t the type of person to make fun of his enemies. And to demoralize his opponent, he doesn’t need words.

The picture appears in front of his eyes: armor-piercing automatic shells stabbing through the masonry of the arched opening, Yaku, not making it to shelter behind the pulpit. Yaku, falling to the stone floor.

Kuroo bends his head low, gritting his teeth so tightly his gums hurt.

“Well, we always knew you’d drive us all to our graves.” The Yaku in his head rolls his eyes. “You think you have time for this?”

Shut up, thinks Kuroo. Why can’t I get rid of you even when you’re dead?

“Because you deserve this after torturing me with your stupidity in life. Stop sniffling, god, you dumbass. You already have a plan.”

Kuroo relaxes, and gets over himself. If even a dead — he winces, but if he doesn’t have sarcasm he doesn’t have anything — Yaku’s putting him down, he has to stop this. He can howl at the moon when he gets out of here.

Especially because he does have a plan.

A Wickedly Clever Plan.

***

The car slowly crawls through the clogged streets of the city center. This is the glittering facade of poor Jakarta, but it’s planned as simply as the slums. Wherever you look, there’s motorbikes trying to weave between the cars, and lazy drivers used to this rate of traffic.

A ringtone chimes in the front seat. Kuroo, whose arms are already losing circulation, is listening with half an ear, while Ushijima picks up the phone, takes the call and says “Listening.” And immediately after, “You mean, the plates were stolen?”

This sounds so intriguing, Kuroo freezes, listening in. 

No way. That can’t be right.

Tendou almost slams on the brakes.

“What-what?” He asks with a half-crazed expression (although Kuroo thinks all of Tendou’s expressions are like that.) He turns around and stares at his partner with wide eyes. “Stolen?”

From his seat Kuroo can see Ushijima frowning.

“How did this happen?”

Silence. Kuroo licks his lips impatiently, instantly grimacing from pain. 

“Do we know who?” Silence. “Caught on the cameras?” Silence. “Security system untouched, and no one saw anything?” More silence, and Kuroo needs answers, now. “Well, find out and call back then.”

How wonderful that people who aren’t Kuroo also need answers!

“What happened over there?” Tendou asks impatiently.

“Ukai Ikkei’s stereoplates were stolen,” Ushijma answers.

Kuroo and Tendou roll their eyes almost simultaneously. 

“Wakatooooshi, I got that!”

“Me too,” Kuroo chimes in.

“You shut up. How did this happen? There’s forty five centimeters of armored steel! A biometric retinal scanner! A third class electronic lock! And protection against thermal charges — they couldn’t do that trick they did in the boss’s office!”

Sounds like an infomercial.

Ushijima is either unperturbed by such trivial matters as the theft of the sacred tablets, or he’s secretly a Zen master, but his face is simply serious — without any hint of rage, shock or even irritation.

“When we’re done here I’ll find out as soon as possible,” he answers.

Tendou tsks loudly, signals to some holy man with a shout of “Bastard, watch where you’re going!” and turns to Kuroo.

“All you do is cause problems.”

Kuroo wants to say “It’s mutual,” but Tendou causes more annoyance than problems, so that’s giving him too much credit. Tendou pauses for a few seconds, seemingly waiting for a comeback, gets impatient, turns around again, sees Kuroo motionless with his hands behind his back, about to say something, but then...

Then he gets a phone call.

Tendou presses the phone to his shoulder, shifts gears, goes into an entirely unceremonious chase, and the voice from his cell bounces through the entire vehicle.

“Wha?” He asks again in a grim voice. “Again? What happened?” He’s silent for a few seconds. “You get the boss out? ...Good. What’s the damage? Do we have the identities of the attackers?”

Beyond the window colorful, shiny cars flicker past; the day’s moving towards noon. Kuroo first stands up slowly, and then starts very gracefully tilting to one side, so smoothly it’s unclear how Ushijima’s peripheral vision notices his movement on the back seat. But he notices, and starts turning back.

“What?!” Tendou roars. “Bokuto Koutarou?!”

A cooler battle cry than “Geronimo.”

Ushijima raises his gun. Kuroo kicks him in the face and tries to twist his arms forward. His arms don’t twist. Damn, this is why one of his ex-girlfriends recommended he try pilates.

“Kuroo, fucking Christ!” Tendou yells, trying to see what’s happening behind him.

Behind him, Kuroo’s kicking Ushijima in the shoulder with his left leg, but other than that nothing much is going on.

“Turn around, I’m shy!” He knocks the gun out of Ushijima’s hands. “What about Bokuto Koutarou?!”

He gets his arms in front and whacks Ushijima in the face with the handcuffs. His ankle feels twisted, but there’s no time for that.

“None of your business,” Tendou screeches horribly, and gets his own gun out.

“Don’t shoot, you’ll wreck the interior!” Kuroo scratches at the retainer with a paper clip, jumps up, bites the redheaded bastard on the nose and almost falls chest-first into the gearshift.

The redheaded bastard yells, trying to hold on to the steering wheel with one hand. It turns out poorly. The car’s weaving through traffic, there’s a cacophony of honking around them warning of an impending vehicular accident. To be a corpse found behind the city limits a decade later, or a corpse pulled out from a car flattened against a truck? What a difficult choice.

Ushijima wipes his bleeding nose on his sleeve and instantly gets headbutted.

“Aaah, God, fuck, open,” Kuroo takes off the retainer and starts determinedly picking the lock. “Tendou, put the gun away!”

Ushijima doesn’t waste time either, but Kuroo grabs the gun from and elbows him in the wrist as hard as possible. There’s a crunch of broken bone and a click of opened handcuffs. Triumphant, Kuroo launches the handcuffs into Tendou’s head, who ducks, but pokes his curious nose into the barrel of Kuroo’s gun.

“Throw your gun out the window, sweetie.” Kuroo smiles at him.

“What?” Tendou asks.

“Gun out the window. Slowly,” Kuroo repeats, not taking his eyes off Ushijima holding his wrist.

Tendou listens — the window opens, and hot dusty air fills the car.

“Good job.” Kuroo early makes up a new order for him. “And now turn the car around. We’re going to Hamaima Tower.”

To Bokuto.

“How did you do that,” Tendou tsks meanly without a question in his voice, obediently keeping his hands on the wheel.

“Your secretary needs to watch her office supplies more carefully.” Kuroo swipes his damp hair off his forehead. The bruise on the right side of his face, beaten in by the security guard’s boots, sparks with pain, but Kuroo decides to not make a sound.

“I hate your ability to get out alive from even the most hopeless situations.”

“I’m famous for that.”

“You’re famous for your stupid hair, don’t get it twisted.”

“You’re so funny! And now turn the car around, Tendou,” Kuroo says, breathing heavily. And repeats, even slower: “Turn around.”

***

It’s nice to be in charge of a situation. It’s nice to have a gun. These two postulates turn out to be the most significant over the last few weeks in Jakarta.

But Kuroo doesn’t want to remember what happened a few weeks ago. A few weeks ago he was sitting in the Church and —

And here’s where he stops himself every ten minutes of the trip.

What Kuroo doesn’t mind thinking about is what happened three days ago. Tsukishima’s face in his mind’s eye — he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it, now — sparks rage in him every time he remembers it. This rage is strong, motivating, keeping him focused: Kuroo knows his goal and knows he’ll reach it.

“I used to regret that I’ve never been to Disneyland and that I didn’t sleep with Sachiko Tomoru in my senior year of high school. But now I understand that my biggest regret in life is not shooting you the first time we crossed paths,” Tendou rambles, and Kuroo, even while remembering the cute — fucking — glasses-wearing face, doesn’t take his eyes off him. Tendou is a dangerous bastard.

Ushijima too.

Ushjima’s tenderly holding his left hand and not making a single sound, just wincing slightly when the car jumps like it’s about to take flight. Now that’s self-control. Kuroo can respect that.

“I don’t understand how someone like you, this brazen and brainless, survived in Jakarta for so long.”

“Not everyone not in the Cartel is an idiot,” Ushijima suddenly says condescendingly, like they’re seriously having this conversation. Or, maybe, Ushjima’s only a tank in appearance, and is also trying to distract Kuroo.

Kuroo encouragingly slaps the back of Ushjima’s seat with his hand. “Golden words! I like your objectivity, Iron Dude.”

“He started saying that only when Oikawa refused to join the Cartel.” Tendou rolls his eyes and flicks on his turn signal.

“Oh.” Kuroo grimaces and fakes a casual tone. “Did you actually invite that loser from the Citadel to join the Cartel? Bad choice, my dudes.”

Tendou keeps up the small talk. “You know Oikawa?”

“I’ve seen him a few times.” God, if only. “Well, his boss tried to kill me, one thing led to another...”

“How original!”

Kuroo prods him in the neck with his gun, and Tendou grumbles “Okay, okay.” They’re slowly approaching the main street of Setiabudi, where Hamaima Tower is located, and the traffic jam, to Kuroo’s displeasure, is solidifying. Their windows are up — it’s impossible to drive with the windows down in Jakarta — and the noise around them is muffled, but Kuroo thinks there’s something strange going on ahead. The traffic flow is disrupted: some people are getting out of cars, others are walking too fast, too many people are talking on their phones. Kuroo listens closer. It seems like somewhere something is thudding, like a giant hammer.

The closer they get to the turn, the more it seems like...

“Mother of fuck,” Tendou says, when they turn the corner.

It’s explosions.

Kuroo, stupefied, watches a police motorcade drive out of the neighboring alley. They’re abandoning their vehicles in the middle of the road — they can’t go any further — and are running at full speed to the epicenter. The image reminds Kuroo of a disaster movie. People are stopping in the center of the highway, getting out of their cars, watching with horror the situation up ahead. Some people get their phones out, many try to turn around and drive further away from the whole thing. The hum of klaxons fill the air with the piercing roar of sirens, explosions and gunshots.

“We’d only been gone an hour,” Tendou says, stunned. “Holy shit!”

Hamaima Tower is ablaze.

It looks almost hypnotizing. The fire’s visible even from here, several districts away. Black smoke fills the sky, the air shimmers with heat. Fire trucks can’t get through the gridlock at the end of the street, the crowd’s going wild, trying to escape on the sidewalks and alleys. The people running away surround their car from all sides.

“Shit,” Tendou says in the quiet of the car’s interior.

“Bokuto,” Kuroo corrects him.

Tendou instantly unfreezes, cutting the engine with a curse. It’s useless, they’re at a standstill. The driver in front of them opened the door and stepped out, staring transfixed at the disaster in front of them.

“Well, well, well.” Kuroo wags his gun at him. “No unnecessary movements. Hands where I can see them.”

“Are you kidding me?!”

“I have the right. You were going to kill me.”

Tendou grimaces. “You’re so petty.” And then turns to the windshield and spits out, “Fucking hell!”

And there is no more precise verbal description for the slowly but steadily approaching armored Hummer Alpha heading towards them. Kuroo can guess who’s behind the wheel just by the type of ar.

Bokuto’s always had a deep love for Hummers, but this is the first time he’s unleashed this monster in Jakarta.

The car’s driving right along the lane line, pushing the gridlock apart with its powerful form. The drivers try to clear the way themselves, but it doesn’t help much — most of the cars still lose their rearview mirrors and gain dents on their doors.

The Hummer continues to drive closer.

“I guess he found out you decided to accompany me on my last journey, guys,” Kuroo laughs. Although this situation doesn’t bring any joy to him. Bokuto might be joking around and playing the fool here, damn.

Or he could be out for blood.

“This is foolish.” Ushijima frowns. “Everyone follows their orders.”

“Well, I was following mine, and Washijou decided to kill me. You were following yours, and Bokuto wants to kill you. It’s all fair,” Kuroo concludes, glancing worriedly at Ushijima. He could put up a serious fight against Bokuto. Even with a broken wrist.

“It’s not Bokuto Koutarou,” Tendou growls, “it’s the goddamn Eleventh Plague!” He turns sharply, and Kuroo taps the trigger as a warning sign. “Why are you still sitting here?! Go tell him you’re still alive before he takes the whole city down!”

“And why should I?” Kuroo squints meanly. “Why shouldn’t I just let him deal with y’all? Or shoot you myself? I don’t need a driver.” He points the gun between Tendou’s eyes.

They say a shot through the face is personal.  _ Your little guy, Yaku, got his hand shot straight through before he fell.  _ Kuroo won’t argue.

Ushijima jumps in, without looking away from the approaching Hummer. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I really?” Kuroo leans back in his seat, pointing the cannon at him. He wants to kill Tendou more, and Ushijima’s actually third on the list after Tsukishima, but now’s not the time for sequence. “Now why would that be? Don’t move,” he says to a fidgety Tendou. “Bokuto’s not here yet.”

“Because you know the Cartel won’t let you get away with killing us. Your friends are dead.” He jerks his chin at the car in front of them. “And Bokuto Koutarou’s alive. And if you kill us, the Cartel will gather all its powers into its fist to crush him. Maybe he’ll live. Bokuto’s a strong and experienced fighter, and he has a good team. Maybe he won’t. And if we kill you now” — and here’s when Kuroo realizes there’s a gun aiming at him from the hand cradling Ushijima’s wrist — “then Bokuto Koutarou will most likely kill us both.”

A silence spreads through the car, a great background to the apocalypse beyond the windows.

“Get the fuck out, Kuroo!” Tendou explodes.

And Kuroo does.

***

Nobody shoots him in the back, as promised. Kuroo keeps looking back at the BMW, crawling between stalled cars, but no one steps out of it. Although it’s impossible to predict Ushijima and Tendou. They might’ve already left the vehicle.

Squeezing through the cracks between bumpers and trunks to the middle of the road, Kuroo ponders. Evidently, Ushjima had the gun from the start, he could’ve shot Kuroo half an hour ago. But he wasn’t planning on doing that — not after the news about Bokuto. Immediately predicted the outcome for both sides.

“Bokuto!” Kuroo yells, finally stepping into the center of traffic. His ribs ache annoyingly from his efforts, and he wraps his arms around his stomach. The Hummer’s driving straight at him, behind the Hummer is the burning Hamaima Tower surrounded by helicopters. “Bo!”

The Hummer determinedly drives forward. It’d be funny if Bokuto’s rescue mission ends up running him over.

The car’s windows are closed, they probably can’t hear Kuroo from there, but he’s hoping the Cartel didn’t beat him into a totally unrecognizable state.

The Hummer stops about five cars ahead. Bokuto is, in fact, behind the wheel. Whatever Washijou and Tendou might’ve grumbled about, he’s alive and forcing everyone else to regret it. He opens the Hummer’s door, leaving a dent in a gleaming orange convertible, jumps down on the asphalt. Looks.

And runs forward.

“Asshole!” He yells, weaving between the cars. “You goddamn tenacious asshole!”

Kuroo presses his lips together and smiles. He feels like he’s watching two and a half tons of iron come at him. Except this time it’s a hundred kilograms of muscle and, as opposed to the Hummer, these hundred kilos are determined to knock Kuroo straight to the ground.

“Bo, please, just don’t—” before he can finish talking, he’s swept into a bone-crushing embrace that hits every stinging rib.

Kuroo screams an unholy scream.

“Shit, bro, sorry.” Bokuto moves away, assessing the damage, and then reaches forward and carefully taps him on the shoulder with his fingertips. “I thought the Cartel had...”

He trails off. In the background, an explosion goes off to the crescendo of wailing firefighting sirens.

“It’s gonna take a little more than the Cartel to kill me,” Kuroo drawls, and then remembers. 

He’d already thought something like that, but about Yaku, not himself. Asking is scary. Kuroo chews the question over in his mouth, swallows, looks at Bokuto — possibly, his last friend alive. Decides, but.

“Let’s go, time to skedaddle.” Bokuto frowns, looking in the direction of the torched Hamaima Tower.

“Did anyone survive?” Kuroo forces himself to ask the question, once they’re in the car and Bokuto starts driving.

He looks at Kuroo for a few seconds, and Kuroo decides to clarify. “I mean, if Yaku...” he trails off. It’s impossible to say out loud.

“If Yaku what?” Bokuto asks impatiently.

Well, Kuroo thinks.

But, Kuroo thinks.

“Died?” Kuroo finishes.

“What do you mean, dude?” Bokuto frowns. “Nah, Yaku’s injured, but he’s a wounded hero, took a hit while everyone else scrambled, but you already know — you need kryptonite to kill him.”

“What?” Kuroo asks again just in case, not letting the tight knot in his chest loosen. “He’s alive?”

Bokuto slaps his knee. “Everyone’s alive, my dude! We thought you’d—” his face grows somber — “you know, and Yaku’s still yelling at everyone like he always does, what else is he gonna do. That’s the only way to fuck with Saeko, you know them.”

And — yeah, in this moment Kuroo releases the string, and the knot starts sliding slowly, loosening, he sighs deeply, letting the tension leak from his shoulders.

And then turns around suddenly. “With Saeko? Bokuto.” He turns around fully. “Where are we going?”

And Bokuto grins widely. “To the Elder Sisters.”

***

“Did you see” — Hinata bursts into the room — “what’s going on the TV right now?!”

Sugawara turns away from the window, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth. Shimizu looks up from her laptop.

“What happened?” Shimizu asks almost calmly, not rushing to close her laptop. Hinata meanwhile searches for the remote in the dresser beneath the old television. He finds it and turns the TV on. Flips through a few local channels, then stops and makes it louder.

The newscaster’s speaking in Indonesian. City news, Sugawara understands, coming closer.

“... around an hour ago was the first. The attack started so suddenly, no one had time to react. The building lit up almost immediately, several of the first floors have crumbled. According to rescuers, there have been twenty three casualties of the attack.” 

The newscaster’s face is replaced by footage of the event. “Twenty eight more are in critical condition and hospitalized. The attackers used grenade launchers and military RPGs.”

On the screen: shots of black vans. Someone’s shaking camera records people in dark blue costumes, faces in balaclavas and wide protective goggles. 

“Indonesia’s Ministry of Defense reports that it is impossible to determine whether or not the attack was an act of terrorism: no one has claimed responsibility so far, including Jemaah Islamiyah, and the location chosen for the attack is not politically strategic. Jakartan police deny claims of gang business... Armored vehicles have been driven into the city. The identities of the attackers have not yet been confirmed...”

On the screen: Hamaima Tower, burning like a candle.

After that there’s nothing important: an urgent analytical program in a studio with expert commentary.

They don’t need that, though, they know who did it.

“Bokuto Koutarou really didn’t like that the Cartel invited Kuroo for a visit,” Sugawara says, the minute the door closes behind Hinata. The television silently flickers between Indonesian faces.

“If he’s still alive,” Shimizu points out, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms on her chest. She’s still looking at the television — lip reading, Sugawara realizes — and her glasses shine slightly. “The Church wouldn’t have reacted like that to us, if they thought otherwise.”

Sugawara raises his eyebrows. “Do you think that would’ve changed anything? Even if Kuroo survived, the Cartel still would’ve declared war on the Church.”

“If we hadn’t extracted Tsukishima and Yachi, they still would’ve declared war. But we would’ve been caught in the crossfire. On one side of the barricade.” She sighs, fixing her hair. “But you saw: they consider Kuroo Tetsurou their man. Not even his previous actions changed their relationship.”

“There’s a black sheep in every family,” Sugawara jokes sadly.

Kuroo Tetsurou provoked many feelings, and he annoyed most people — especially when he tried to — but his charisma was undeniable.

Shimizu nods. “Exactly why right now we’re they’re enemy number one. Not the Cartel: everyone predicted their reaction. But Kuroo Tetsurou’s death... Of course, we clashed on the stereoplates. But they want to kill us because of Kuroo. We’re next on Bokuto Koutarou’s list.”

Sugawara shifts his gaze to the silently reporting television: they’re showing Hamaima Tower again, blazing with fire and heavy black smoke.

And that’s the Cartel. Easy to predict what’ll happen to them.

Bokuto won’t care whether they’re representatives of the American government or some little gang from the slums. He’s openly shown the whole city what happens to those who kill his loved ones.

Since the unsuccessful robbery, three days have passed.

“We have to call in reinforcements, Kiyoko,” Sugawara says, exhaling cigarette smoke into the room. “As soon as possible. You understand that Bokuto—”

“We’re already in a highly precarious position.” Shimizu shakes her head. “Especially because a few operatives won’t help here — you understand who attracted Bokuto. We can’t call in an army here, Koushi. The US can’t even mark their presence on Indonesian territory. We have to do this with our own forces. Especially...”

Sugawara raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t believe Kuroo Tetsurou can die that easily. If he’s still alive, we might have a chance.”

“Our lives depend on the life of Kuroo Tetsurou, who we threw into the fire ourselves.” Sugawara rubs his forehead.

“Our lives, and the success of the operation.”

“Then let’s pray that he survived.”

Sugawara’s never done anything stranger in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuckin shout out to my bff irl jamie for the speedy beta for every chapter. the real mvp  
> TRANSLATION NOTES FOR THIS CHAPTER:  
> "harder-better-faster-stronger": I don't /think/ this was a daft punk reference originally, but this sounded better than "faster-better-more expensive" so  
> "crush or whatever" ok so this single word caused me SO MUCH PAIN because I asked my mom what it meant and she said "it's like sweetheart but more vulgar but w/less commitment than the word crush implies" and I discussed it w/two discord servers and 3 friends for like 20 mins before deciding on "crush or whatever" and I'm STILL not satisfied w/that but There It Is  
> on a personal note I love the kuroyaku dynamic in this fic so much, they're so good, my boys  
> up next: I try very hard to not get Indonesian Stuff wrong in the process of transliterating cyrillic back into the latin alphabet, but I probably will, so apologies in advance  
> 


	12. Chapter 12

How it should be:

Kuroo Tetsurou — alive and unharmed — throws the double doors open with both hands and, taking a few steps forward, stops.

How it actually is:

Kuroo Tetsurou — beaten-up, bloody, but alive — throws the double doors open with both hands and falls into the room, almost breaking his nose on the wooden floor in the process.

“Yaku!” he barks. “Morisuke!”

Yaku looks at him like he’s a complete moron. Furrows his short light brows and says, “Stop yelling.”

What, does he not have any feelings? He thought Kuroo was dead, Kuroo thought  _ he  _ was dead, and the first thing he says is “Stop yelling”?

The best words in the world.

Kuroo doesn’t even hide his smile, which turns into a laugh when he notices what Yaku’s wearing.

“Seriously, dude? What is that, a kemben?”

Yaku, completely wrapped in a floral fabric in red-gold colors — looks like silk, with an elegant sinuous pattern, bold flowers and embroidery — darkens instantly. He starts feeling for something next to him with one hand, and the still cackling Kuroo understands he’s trying to find his gun — what, does the kemben not have pockets? Which makes everything even funnier.

“It’s not a kemben!” Yaku is almost roaring. “It’s just... It’s some... They gave it to me instead of a robe, stop laughing, you bastard! I can’t wear shirts right now! Kuroo, you fucker, it’s not funny enough for you to laugh like that!”

But Kuroo laughs, and with his laughter all of the tension of the last few hours comes out too. He understands completely: no more dead Yaku in his head.

Here he is, sitting and yelling at him like usual. Only the bright traditional — female! — costume instead of his black cassock is a departure from his usual appearance. The clothing and the room.

It’s been a while since Kuroo’s last been in a place so... Indonesian. The domed slope of the ceiling — entirely wooden, as are the floors. Maroon upholstered furniture — massive bed, pillows on wicker armchairs, cloth hangings on the walls, low round tables with mosaic tabletops. Geometric patterns, animals on fabric... Anyway, what else could you expect from this place.

“It suits you,” Kuroo manages, choking back the laughter because his throat is unpleasantly sore now. He can almost hear Yaku’s teeth grinding. “And it’s not a robe, sweetheart.” If he keeps doing that they’re going to have to go look for a dentist. “This is definitely a kemben.”

“It just looks like—”

“That’s how they’re tied on women. See the edge over your shoulder? That’s the kamen. And the covering underneath is a baju.”

Yaku is going red in splotches, looking down at himself and patting his skinny chest with one hand. “I thought...this was like a men’s sarong...”

And at that moment Kuroo notices that Yaku’s other hand is bent at the elbow and firmly fastened in a heavy cast, barely peeking out from under the fabric. He remembers Tendou’s words: the shithead really was telling the truth.

“How” — Kuroo comes closer and nods — “is your arm?”

Yaku tsks irritably; he never did like anyone fussing over his health. “Well, the bone’s shattered in two places.” He waves it off with his good arm, like, no big deal. “Besides that, the elbow joint’s fine, so it’s whatever. It’ll heal.”

“Is there a pen anywhere he—” 

Yaku realizes his intentions before he can finish speaking. “I will beat you up again, even though you’ve already been beaten up. Don’t even fucking think about it.”

“But I want to write my well wishes to the poor patient!”

“Are we in elementary school? You’re more likely to draw me a dick with eyes than some kind of wish for me.”

Now that’s hurtful. Kuroo would’ve wished — a few more centimeters in height, for example. 

“Dead or alive, it’s always the same.” Kuroo sighs tragically, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re still just as terrible. And tiny.”

“I will stain this oak wood with your blood,” Yaku promises, although from a person with only one working hand the threat doesn’t sound that serious. Although Yaku can hit hard in any condition.

“It’s Malaysian padauk, Morisuke-kun,” a voice sounds from the door. “And the Mistress will be upset if you really do stain it.”

“Yaku-san looks so little in that thing!”

One gangly figure Kuroo recognizes and even feels happy to see, somehow. Especially since that figure is faithfully on his side when it comes to making fun of Yaku. Lev also has a bandaged arm and a huge cut on the right side of his face, but it’s fine, Kuroo understands, it’ll heal. Eighteen-year-old boys heal fast.

And next to Lev is a young woman, the one who mentioned the Malaysian padauk. And Kuroo can instantly tell they’re related. “A younger brother to one of the Elder Sisters,” Kuroo recalls. She’s tall too: stately, but elegant, in silver-blue kamen. Her silvery hair falls down her back, and there’s a smile on her face.

“Shut up, Lev,” Yaku barks, tying the kamen tighter. Then notices the woman, looking her up and down, realizing they’re wearing identical clothing in different colors, and groans. “Why didn’t you tell me you gave me women’s clothing?! Alisa!”

Alisa and Lev Haiba. Half Russian, half Japanese, living in Indonesia. That’s why Kuroo genuinely loves Jakarta — its cocktail of nationalities.

“Because they’re called the Elder Sisters, not the Big Brothers,” he snickers. “I doubt they could’ve instantly found you some menswear from their supply closet. Not in your size.”

Lev’s older sister — Alisa, apparently — nods approvingly at him, walking up to Yaku and pulling the cloth aside to look at his arm.

“Is that a sari?” Lev asks curiously, having grown up around kimonos and yukatas. Yaku looks like he’s ready to whack Lev with his cast.

“Saris are worn in India,” Kuroo corrects him. “This is a kemben, but similar concept. By the way, where’s Bo? He dropped me off here and then kept driving.”

Yaku, still trying to burn a hole through Lev by glaring at him, nods at Alisa. 

Alisa calmly answers, “The Mistress assigned them separate housing. There’s too many of them, and they have too many weapons. They might scare the clients.”

“You’re talking like your clients are innocent teenagers, not hardened criminals and politicians.”

“All our clients are valued.” Alisa smiles. “And with any client we can find a common language.”

According to Yaku, she and Lev made it over here from Hokkaido a year and a half ago. Kuroo’s never seen her before and has only known her for ten minutes, but could already confidently say she’s been taken in by the Sisters for a reason. The Elder Sisters hide their dangerous nature behind smiles like that.

And if a client was rude and refused to find a common language with the Sisters, he could later be found floating in the sewage canal with his tongue carefully removed. The subordinates reflect their leadership. Which.

“Where is the Mistress, anyway?” Kuroo hmphs.

“She’s expecting you for dinner in the main hall.”

“Food sounds great” — Kuroo perks up immediately — “But dinner is too far away. I haven’t eaten in almost three days, can someone organize a quick snack in here, order pizza or something?”

Alisa smiles at him briefly. “I’ll ask someone to deliver to you, Kuroo-san.” Oho, she knows what he’s called. That’s what it means to be a celebrity! “Especially because Morisuke-kun needs to be examined by the doctor again soon. Lyovushka.” She turns to Lev, who’s sitting on the bed next to Yaku and quietly giggling over his kemben. Fortunately for him, Yaku’s too busy looking skeptically at Kuroo to pay attention to that. “Come with me.”

“So what’d happened to you over there?” Yaku asks grimly, the minute the arched doors swing shut behind Alisa and Lev.

“Are you wondering how much they’d tortured me, or if I’d learned anything interesting while they were torturing me?”

Yaku’s expression makes it clear that if Kuroo doesn’t stop fucking around, he’s going to be tortured right now. Although, his expression turns out to be misleading.

“I can see how they’d tortured you. But since you’re walking independently and making all your usual dumb jokes, I guess they didn’t cause you any lasting harm.” He frowned. “But I don’t like your face.”

Kuroo’s offended. “Now that’s a twist!”

“You know what I mean. Maybe you should—” 

“Why didn’t you stop Bokuto from calling in all the horsemen of the Apocalypse?” Kuroo interrupts him.

Yeah, sudden subject change. Yeah, too obvious. But Yaku just sighs. “Why should I have?” He looks away and shrugs. “We thought you were, most likely, dead. Kai kept jabbering” — Kuroo takes a moment to attempt to picture a jabbering Kai — “about the one out of fifty odds of you surviving, and I told him to fuck off, and then I told Lev to fuck off, and then the Cartel decided to make a few extra holes in us and shoot at the Church a bit. So.” He smirks, looking up again. “Bokuto decided to shoot at the Cartel a bit.”

Kuroo shakes his head. Bokuto’s former coworkers, usually scattered across the world and doing their own stuff, turn into The Expendables when Bokuto puts the call out: the former “death squad” of the Imperial government was a real weapon of mass destruction. Kuroo’s sure that together they could definitely seize control of a small country.

“So the old man agreed to these measures? Really sweet of y’all, really, but— Nekomata?”

“I didn’t ask him.”

Kuroo’s surprised, but silently waits for an explanation.

“The Bishop’s gone to Bandung,” Yaku scratches the embroidery on his cloth wrap, glares at Kuroo, catches Kuroo’s gaze containing the full spectrum of human emotion, and pulls himself together.

“How is he?”

The fact that Nekomata’s gone somewhere means he is, at the very least, alive. That he’s gone to Bandung specifically means that he’s not intending to wait until Washijou’s killed them all.

“I evacuated him first, once I figured out what’s up. He’s totally fine.”

“First the children and the elderly, huh?” Kuroo laughs sharply. Everything that seemed so irreversably awful at first suddenly looks like a scary story. Seriously, how could he have thought that the old man he’d tried to kill every other day up until he hit his twenties could be knocked down by some firefight?

“He’s been on my case about how expensive the restoration’s going to be.” Yaku laughs too, and Kuroo hears the relief in his laugh.

And also — if Nekomata’s certain they’re going to resurrect the Church in Jakarta...

“So we really have the sacred tablets?”

Yaku opens his mouth to respond when the doors swing open again — and the interior of the room visually shrinks by half. Because Bokuto bursts in.

“The guys are resting,” he exclaims cheerfully, crossing over to the bed in three huge steps and belly flopping onto it. Yaku grumbles that this room’s actually reserved for him and Bokuto can go to his own place and lie down however he wants over there. “They really like it here!”

“Well, they really like the Elder Sisters,” Kuroo corrects him. “Pretty girls in kamen” — he and Bokuto cackle, looking at Yaku, while Yaku’s ready to pop a blood vessel — “delicious food, magazine-quality interiors, the highest level of service... Have they checked out the House of Comfort? There’s —”

“Kuroo!”

“Okay, okay.” To be honest, he doesn’t really have the energy to be joking around like this. “So what’s up with the sacred tablets?”

He finally sits down in one of the armchairs. His legs instantly start aching. His ribs instantly start aching. His arms instantly start aching. And even his face, although before this he didn’t notice the pain at all. Every muscle aches, whether it exists or not.

“Kuroo,” Yaku squints. Well, yeah, of course, why wouldn’t Yaku notice Kuroo groaning and grabbing his side. “Go to the Sisters’ doctor. Now.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks, mom.” Kuroo waves him off. “Sacred tablets, guys. Tell me. As I understood it, the Cartel hid them somewhere in another building.”

“Yeah.” Yaku nods. “They were stolen for us.”

Kuroo is genuinely indignant. “So I came up with an amazing plan, risked life and limb for it, jumped off a roof, got kicked in every organ imaginable for three days straight, and y’all just— went and got them?”

“Well,” Bokuto props himself up on his elbows. “I called Akaashi.”

Kuroo’s eyebrows go up.

“You... what?” Kuroo asks dumbly.

“Called Akaashi,” Bokuto repeats dumbly.

To anyone else they probably look like real geniuses.

Kuroo jumps up, slaps himself on the forehead and wails, “Of fucking course!”

His body whines mercilessly, but the sensation of informational catharsis cannot be stopped.

“Bro, you alright?” Bokuto scratches a bushy eyebrow.

“Not seen on camera!” Kuroo pushes his bangs back. “Security system untouched! Who else could’ve swindled the Cartel like that?”

Kuroo falls into his chair, instantly regrets that he decided to fall instead of carefully sit down, and drawls, “God, I wish I could’ve seen their faces. Akaashi,” Kuroo tsks, like he personally raised this boy, brought him here by the hand and explained to him how to con the Cartel out of thirteen million euros. “Cool as ever.”

Bokuto’s face lights up like a Christmas tree and he nods fervently. “Akaashi’s like that!”

The onle thing that doesn’t make sense to Kuroo is, “I thought you didn’t plan on calling him.” He traces a fresh, wide wound on his cheek with one hand. It’s damp, he’ll probably need stitches for that. “Like, he was busy with some big job with the paintings in Helsinki.”

And Bokuto doesn’t really like to pull Akaashi into gang fights where everyone’s shooting at everyone else, so that’s two reasons Kuroo doesn’t understand why and what for. 

Bokuto rubs his neck, embarrassed. “Well, I scared him too. Said, that you, well, you know.” Bokuto doesn’t want to say the worst out loud. “You get it, anyway: said I needed help to take revenge on the bastards. And he instantly booked a plane ticket.”

“Wait, hold on,” Kuroo remembers a profoundly important detail. “And how did our lady with the cannon react to his arrival?”

Bokuto looks at the floor: a sensitive question, apparently.

“Well, in the five minutes they’ve spent together so far...” he drawls, “Nothing’s really happened?”

And looks at Kuroo with an expression that pleads, “Please confirm that nothing has, in fact, happened.”

“How should I know.” Kuroo snickers. “Did she fire on him?”

Bokuto’s eyes go wide, like, who could possibly raise a hand against Akaashi. Kuroo is in full agreement.

“Let’s hope she won’t.” He shrugs.

They don’t get pizza — instead, a fragile girl drags in a tray of fruit and some sandwiches, and that’s upsetting because in the time it’d taken them to make those sandwiches they could’ve planted some wheat, harvested it, ground it into flour, made dough and baked a decent Hawaiian pizza with ham and pineapple. He jumps on the food anyway. Asks them to ask what happened while he was heroically sacrificing himself for the greater good and picks out the dried fruit bits he hates.

“After you...”

Got captured by enemy agents?

“...Were caught by the Cartel...”

Ugh, Yaku, do you have to say it so plainly?

“...we met with the Americans.”

“I see.” Kuroo smiles, picking up a bunch of grapes from the platter and, throwing his head back, devouring it. “That’s...neat?”

“Is that all you’re going to say?” Yaku tears some thread off his wrap dress and beads scatter across the floor.

“Well, yeah?” Kuroo quirks a brow. “I wish them the best?”

“Okay, bro,” Bokuto says, skeptically, “but you’re going to break the armrest like that.”

Kuroo feigns a shocked expression at his right wrist — like, wow, what are these hands doing these days? — and serenely folds his hands in his lap, chewing over the grapes.

“And how are our dear Americans?” He doesn’t want to rush, so he eats deliberately slowly.

“They didn’t go for the stereoplates while they were in the Cartel’s hands.” Yaku grimaces with a dark chuckle. “Didn’t admit their guilt. Although we tried to prove it to them.”

“What a shame.” Kuroo makes a wide gesture with one arm. “And how is our relationship with them now?”

Bokuto hums thoughtfully, and then clarifies, “On a scale of one to ten, or from ‘shitty’ to ‘shitty’?”

“Let’s do from ‘shitty’ to ‘shitty,” Kuroo selects.

“Then somewhere around ‘shitty,’” Bokuto nods.

Yaku eloquently rolls his eyes, but decides to ignore them. Evidently out of respect for their heroism. “They’re currently hiding out in a motel beyond the southern bounds of the city. We don’t know what their plans are.” He, as usual, seems to be considering these setbacks as his own fault.

“Well then we have to find out.” Kuroo shoves a sandwich into his mouth. “I have a whole set of questions for them.”

“You need to rest first.” In Yaku’s voice is that caring tone that means “bitch, get some rest or I’ll make sure you rest in peace.” “For three days—”

“First—”

“First you run all your ideas by me,” Yaku cuts him off. “I’m sick of the fact that your reckless decisions keep leaving you in deep shit and drag us down wi—”

“First I need to visit the doctor,” Kuroo interrupts. “And then come up with a Wickedly Clever Plan. Did you really think I’d go to those American losers without a plan? Please.”

Yaku looks at Kuroo. Kuroo keeps eating without breaking eye contact. And then grabs his jaw.

“See!” he rasps. “I definitely won’t go over there without any teeth! ... Shit, I think that asshole really did knock something out of me...”

“Doctor’s in the seventh building.” Bokuto points somewhere through the wall.

“Go and come back, we’re gonna wait for the bishop.”

“Where else could I go?” Kuroo moans, standing up from the chair like he’d been struck with paralysis. “Hey, Bo, where did they put you? Can I borrow a shirt?”

He isn’t thinking about a shirt or his teeth. God bless America, Kuroo thinks.

And slams the door.

***

The basements of the Cartel had one major positive: air conditioning. Although Kuroo, of course, assumed they were air vents. And the presence of those vents in the basements of Hamaima-Tower unilaterally implied that they weren’t playing checkers over there. Although the presence of a half-conscious Kuroo on the concrete floor also implied that, but thankfully, this time they didn’t need vents.

Bokuto’s t-shirt is a little short on Kuroo, but massive in the shoulders. He yanks it down again, hiding the bandages he’d been wrapped in before finally leaving the Sisters. Kuroo looks himself over in the rearview mirror, shoves half a donut in his mouth and jumps out of the car.

On the street is the usual humidity.

And also on the street is an elderly Indonesian woman watching in horror as Kuroo throws a massive SIG 516 over one shoulder.

Sorry, Yaku. Kuroo needs to explain to a certain someone the do’s and don’ts of polite society.

He hears someone at the entrance to the motel parking shout and cover their mouth with one hand, but doesn’t even turn around. Slams the door shut, holding the automatic in place with one hand and licking the donut glaze off the other hand’s fingers.

The pro-American type motel is located beyond Jakarta’s borders. It’s a long, low horseshoe-shaped building with maroon tiles. The parking lot’s in the courtyard. Cheap and crude, and usually full of tourists, spending the night before adventuring on Java.

“Hey, baby even though I hate ya,” Kuroo sings absentmindedly, stopping in the middle of the parking lot, “I wanna love ya, I want you...”

He’s not going to hide. Not this time, fuckers. Scared of having a gun pointed at you, young Tsukishima Kei?

“Tell me, tell me, baby,” — he looks at the second floor of the motel, balconies facing the parking lot, “Why can't you leave me....”

Numbers thirty five and thirty six. Looks like the right wing of the building.

“Head in the clouds...” Kuroo climbs up the side staircase towards the balcony, jumping over two steps. “Got no weight on my shoulders...”

He shoves the SIG under one arm, nodding to the beat and counting off rooms.

“I should be wiser...”

Number forty one, number forty, thirty nine.

“And realize that I’ve got...”

Thirty eight, thirty seven.

“...One less problem without ya.”

Thirty six.

He shoots through the door point blank.

***

“Bonjour, kitties.” Kuroo kicks the door open.

Several warning shots into the ceiling, right in the center of the cheap stucco. A great continuation to an excellent day.

Kuroo fires around the perimeter, yanks his backup cartridge out of his belt, bites the end off, spends the last of the previous cartridge on a few shots at the orange hair peeking out from behind the bed, reloads the SIG and yawns into the silence, “Okay, everyone who lived, stand up.”

Silence. Okay, if they don’t want it the hard way, he’ll just have to make it even worse.

A shot into the miraculously surviving lamp on the bedside table — it flies apart into blue plastic shards, plaid lampshade tilting sideways and then falling to the floor. Someone screams shrilly behind the bed. So little blondie’s over there, then.

Redhead kid — Kuroo shoots randomly into a pillow, the pillow bursts into polyester bits— over there.

“Didn’t expect me?” Kuroo singsongs. “I l-o-o-ve doing surprises. So, the hero of the day is...”

The door in the far corner is firmly shut, and yellow light seeps out from behind it.

“Why did you come here?!” the redhead exclaims boldly.

Wow, someone decided to speak. Although in vain.

“My dear sweetheart, don’t ask stupid questions.” Kuroo steps into the center of the room, blindly moves his arm to the left and fires a few rounds into the space between the beds.

First Kuroo’s going to ask, through tears, why. And shoot him in the knees. And then say it really fucking hurts, and he’s still suffering. And shatter his elbows. And then admit he lied.

“Open up, Tsukishima, I know you’re in there.” Kuroo stands sideways, facing the room, side-eyes the door and knocks briefly. “Miss, please stop reaching for the gun, or I’ll shoot you in the hand.”

The blondie’s scrunched up somewhere behind the bed where Kuroo can’t see any of her, but he remembers how she fearlessly crawled through the vents and is in no hurry to underestimate that girl. He’s more worried about the silence from the redhead’s side. Did he accidentally blow his brains out after all?

Killing a government agent turns out not to feel as great as he’d expected, but it’s possible he’d had the wrong method — Kuroo would’ve preferred to break each bone individually — and the wrong agent.

Kuroo growls, tugs on he handle, takes a few steps back and shoots the lock through. Pulls the door open towards himself, steps over the threshold — and almost gets whacked on the head by a bulletproof laptop. His reflexes allow him to dodge in time. Freckles is breathing heavily and watching with round eyes. Don’t be surprised, kid, you’re not the only one in shock at how brave you are.

Tsukishima stands, shoved into the corner between the sink and the wall. He lunges forward, but Kuroo kicks him back, and grabs the brave little agent’s hair and shoves him against the white tile of the bath. The boy slides down the wall. Tsukishima’s looking from his face, to Kuroo’s eyes, to the automatic in Kuroo’s hands.

“Come on.” And Kuroo points that automatic straight at him. “Come out slowly and gracefully.”

Tsukishima doesn’t move.

“I came here to shoot you, and I don’t have any reasons not to do that.” Kuroo stretches the words out till they’re just long vowels, although he wants to hiss and spit at him.

The dude’s a terrible spy, how did he even survive for twenty-something years? He’s glaring daggers behind Kuroo’s back. Kuroo almost has time to turn around, but in the next moment he’s being strangled by something. He’s bending backwards, grabbing the constricting element with his free hand, shoots blindly backwards with the other a few times, until he hears a shout and the grip loosens.

“Fuck,” the redheaded kid exclaims, his thigh’s shot. Who knew the kid was that feisty?

Redhead whacks Kuroo in the jaw with his right hand, gets whacked in return by the barrel of the gun and instantly shoves the knee of his wounded leg into Kuroo’s solar plexus. Kuroo tries to catch his breath, or maybe come up with a way to not need to breathe anymore, when Redhead slams him in the wrist. Presses his finger backwards away from the trigger, practically drags the automatic out of Kuroo’s hands, and —

“God, don’t tell me...” Kuroo rolls his eyes in disappointment, feeling the gun between his shoulderblades. “Try not to shoot me by accident. You don’t know how to hold a weapon at all.”

Tsukishima behind his back says, with impeccable indifference, “Only on purpose.”

“Hinata, are you okay?” The little blondie jumps up to him, casting a frightened glance at Kuroo, who takes the opportunity to wink at her.

“Totally fine,” Redhead groans, jaw clenched, and sits down on the bed. “You should check on Yamaguchi...” he looks at Kuroo, chin up. “Dang, I did good.”

“Oh yeah, you’re a tough cookie alright.” Kuroo clicks his tongue, like the fact that he’s been disarmed is mostly embarrassing for the people who so disarmed him.

The senior agents — the girl-boss and her cutesy assistant with the beauty mark — break into the suite at that moment. They look so serious, he can’t hold back a laugh.

“You’re just in time.” Kuroo puts both hands up in a conciliatory gesture, just in case.

He’s not an idiot, but he does sometimes get distracted by rage. And now look at this deep shit he’s ended up in because of that rage. Truly incredible. It’s interesting how long it took the management to show up, but Kuroo’s not complaining. 

This isn’t the most inescapable situation in Kuroo’s lifespan. Get them talking, lean sideways, disarm Tsukishima, point the automatic at him and walk out slowly. And then shoot the hostage on the threshold for everyone to enjoy.

“What are you doing here?” Sugawara’s looking at him through the viewfinder.

“Koushi, I can handle it myself,” their eternally absent supervisor, Shimizu, delivers in a neutral voice. “Take Yachi and Hinata, and collect all of the belongings revealing our identity.”

Kuroo is glad she’s that certain she can handle it herself.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sugawara answers doubtfully. “Hitoka, Shouyou, let’s go.”

Blondie spins out from behind Kuroo, stepping out of the bathroom, walks around him in a wide arc, and then turns back at the threshold in fear. Kuroo winks at her and she vanishes instantly. Tiny Redhead is only leaving because he was ordered to — it shows on his face.

“What brings you here?” The senior agent furrows her brows.

Light streams out behind her back, but not enough to light the room fully, so they’re in a romantic half-darkness. Kuroo had thoughtfully destroyed both the ceiling lights and the bedside lamps when he arrived, and twilight is slowly approaching outside.

“I missed y’all,” he drawls. “Well, that or I hunger for vengeance. Which one do you prefer?”

He’s not going to explain to this woman how hard it hit him when the danger had passed and he remembered, again, how much crap he lived through because of — Kuroo glares at Tsukishima — one of their colleagues. Fucking employee of the month.

“Or how do you like the version where I was sent here for a talk, and then changed my plans on the way and bought a rifle?”

Which he really got out of Bokuto’s cabin. But he’s not going to explain to this woman that he’s a creative individual, an impulsive kind of guy and, when things get personal, not prone to thinking about consequences.

“Fine,” Kuroo sighs peaceably. “I was sent to see how things are going over here.”

“So that’s why you started a firefight?” Shimizu presses her lips into a single skeptical line.

“Well, I got jealous of how nice your setup is.” Kuroo grins in response.

“You shot our colleague in the leg.”

“And I was just getting started.”

“You’re not in a position to make threats.” She holds a pause. “Does The Church want conflict?”

The Church wants you to get out of this city, that’s what.

“The Church wants explanations.” Kuroo decides to move the conversation into a constructive direction, although most of all he wants to be destructive and explode someone’s head. He doesn’t understand if the shooting calmed him down or wound him up more. “The Church wants to understand if setting up your allies to take the fall is a deeply buried facet of the American character or are y’all just special like that?”

“You do understand that what happened in Hamaima Tower was an accident, right?”

Right, so Kuroo accidentally spent three days half-conscious in the basement.

“We weren’t planning to set you up,” Shimizu continues.

Kuroo widens his eyes, like, oh, okay then, my mistake, I’ll be going now. Then snorts and smiles sourly. “But you did, though.”

What does intent matter it it doesn’t change the outcome in any way. It’s like shooting someone in the head and then gasping, explaining your hand was shaking and tell everyone you’re sorry. Judging by how Shimizu’s looking at him, and how Tsukishima’s poking the barrel of the gun between his shoulderblades, they’re not even sorry.

“We’re going to let you go now,” she starts, “and you’ll relay to the bishop that we won’t allow intervention into our affairs.”

“I can’t lead a constructive negotation when there’s a long hard object poking me in the back.” Kuroo rolls his eyes.

The figure behind his back coughs furiously. He turns his head, leans to the left as much as possible, but can’t get a clear look at the shameless face no matter what.

“The bishop is unlikely to listen to you. And I have a personal score to settle,” he spits mockingly over his shoulder, “with a certain someone. How’s it going, Tsukishima? Sleeping well?”

“Please stop this.”

Look who opened his mouth. So he can throw people under the bus  _ and  _ talk?

“Nah, let’s have a nice heart-to-heart before I shoot you.”

“Senior Agent Shimizu already explained to you.” Kuroo can hear how Tsukishima’s voice trembles, either from irritation or something else. “We did not have any intention of setting you up.”

“I ordered it.” Shimizu tries to bring back her participation in the dialogue, but only makes matters worse.

“You mean, you were ordered.” Kuroo ignores her, but doesn’t ignore the meaning of what was said and scowls dakrly into the empty space in front of him. “By someone who wasn’t even there.”

“My direct superiors—”

“So you don’t have your own brain, of course.”

“I—”

“Not just a coward, but a brainless coward.” 

“We couldn’t have taken the fall!” Tsukishima blurts out, raising his voice. “Even if we annulled our agreement with Washijou, we still—”

“Agreement with Washijou?”

Is Kuroo hearing things? Don’t tell him that they actually dared to get cozy with that old bastard behind the Church’s back.

“Kei.” He’s gotta give credit where it’s due, the woman is looking at Tsukishima almost without reproach.

“Wait, what?” Kuroo doesn’t let up.

“You didn’t need to know that,” Shimizu says.

“No shit I didn’t need to know that,” he grits out in response.

At that moment two things happen in sequence which prevent Kuroo from finishing his sentence. First of all, the door to the suite bursts open. Tiny Blondie appears in the doorway with the bulletproof suitcase-laptop in hand and briefly reports, “Someone called the cops because of the gunshot sounds. A police detail is on its way.”

“How much time do we have?” Shimizu asks sharply.

Blondie shakes her head. “A few minutes, max.”

Oh, and now they’re going to decide to finish with me, Kuroo thinks with cheerful rage.

The second thing that happens is, his phone rings. Kuroo winces — it looks like a chance, but really he has plenty of chances anyway so long as the automatic is in the hands of that glasses-wearing nerd, which bothers him more.

“Answer the phone,” Shimizu either allows or orders him.

Kuroo slowly reaches for the phone, calculating his paths of escape.

“Tsukishima, who’s calling?”

Tsukishima, pressing the gun even more firmly to Kuroo’s back, peeks over his shoulder and answers, “Yaku Morisuke.”

“You’re going to answer the call and say you didn’t find us and are on your way back.”

This woman doesn’t shoot to miss. She could’ve, if Kuroo wasn’t that good at lying.

Is ending up a hair’s breadth away from death this often really healthy for a body? Kuroo himself is thinking it might be time to wrap this up.

“Hello?” He picks up the call.

“Kuroo, are you a dumbass?” Yaku doesn’t even pause. “You dumbass!”

“Why are you deciding for me?” Kuroo smirks, trying to come up with a good comeback that implies he’s not totally covered in shit yet, but definitely has one foot in the deep shit.

“Where are you?” Yaku ignores him. “The bishop’s coming back soon!”

Ask him something easier. This reminds Kuroo of the challenge “make it home from the other end of the city when you find out your parents are going to be home in twenty minutes.”

“Well I’m not.” Yaku’s about to start a disappointed dad speech when Kuroo quickly adds, without looking away from Shimizu, “I’m leaving our American friends’ place. There’s no one here.”

Yaku’s silent for a few seconds, and then asks, “Totally empty?”

“Yup,” Kuroo almost singsongs. “Nobody, and it’s very depressing.”

“Not even a trace? No... clues?”

Damn, why this much drama?

“Well,” he tries to make his voice sound careless. “Maybe I’ll find something. Don’t stress. I’ll run through their rooms again and then drive back. So how about that pizza? Hawaiian?”

“I’m allergic to pineapples, moron!” Yaku barks, and hangs up.

He’s clearly not pissed because Kuroo forgot about his dietary restrictions. He’s pissed because Kuroo forgot about common sense and once again decided to act like a complete idiot. This is the first time Kuroo’s willing to cosign all of the insults Yaku has thrown at him since the two of them were eighteen years old.

“Are you satisfied?” Kuroo grimaces.

“Absolutely,” Shimizu answers without sarcasm, and adds what Kuroo had subconsciously been expecting but not believing he’d hear. “Tsukishima, it’s time. Shoot.”

The only weapon in the room is the automatic in Tsukishima’s hands. Maybe there’s something else somewhere in the drawers, but he doesn’t have time to go rummaging.

“I beg your pardon?” Tsukishima says, hesitating.

Kuroo rolls his eyes.

“No time, shoot.” Shimizu pulls the curtain aside and looks out the window. “The police are already at the top of the street.”

“What, just like that? But what about making everything look like an accident?” Kuroo makes a face, sarcastically.

“Senior Agent Shimizu, I don’t think that—” Tsukishima babbles. Hopeless kid.

“Shoot!” Shimizu orders him. “Or give me the gun.”

Kuroo’s certain: the next time Tsukishima opens his mouth will be the ideal moment to grab the weapon and construct himself a pathway out of corpses.

But Tsukishima shoots.

His shoulder — goddamn it, the kid can’t even kill him properly! — is pierced clear through. The bullet, losing speed, flies into the wall, paint flakes off and flies into a firework. Kuroo bends over, clutching his shoulder. Blood leaks into his palm. Hot, sticky, and his own.

This stops Kuroo for only a second.

His shoulder’s pulsing, and he wants to whine through his teeth — but he’s been hurt too many times over the last three days for this pain to outweigh his desire to survive. 

And then he ends up next to Tsukishima and with his free — meaning, not wounded, thanks — hand yanks the automatic towards himself. Thankfully, the guy clearly isn’t used to shooting living targets. After he fires, his face freezes in such an expression of total shock, Kuroo can’t not use it.

He slams the butt of the rifle into Tsukishima’s jaw and pulls it out of his hands. When he tries to move his other arm, a wave of pain flares up, so Kuroo just tries to keep that arm out of the way. How fucking stupid he was, to think about this whole situation at all. Yaku’s gonna kill him.

He plans to shoot a round at Tsukishima, and hopefully survive the experience, but his plans are disrupted by a door bursting open and Sugawara, who fires at Kuroo. He’s forced to retreat in the direction of the bathroom.

“You’ll hit Tsukishima!” Shimizu yells. “We’re leaving!”

The wail of sirens is audible from the highway right under the window.

Kuroo peeks out from the bathroom: Tsukishima’s standing up from behind the bed, where he was taking cover from the bullets, and, picking up a bag, runs to the exit. Sugawara fires a few bullets at random, but they lodge themselves in the doorway — Kuroo takes a step back.

“He has the weapon! There’s no time. Let’s go!” Shimizu snaps.

They run out of the suite almost instantly. She steps out and looks back at the threshold, with an expression like she’s regretting that she can’t shoot him here and now with her own two hands. The redheaded kid is limping out, grabbing some kind of backpack on the way and still aiming at him. Sugawara’s walking out backwards. Tsukishima is running out and not looking back.

Jesus Christ. Came in to say hi, pretty much. Kuroo brushes his hair back, and, wet with blood, it doesn’t fall back into his face.

Kuroo, holding his injured arm and filling Yaku’s car with blood, only leaves the parking lot when three police Fords arrive to the accompaniment of sirens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO. The original text kept saying sarong when referring to the traditional clothing ppl were wearing, but I googled it, and the internet told me sarongs referred to clothing usually worn by men, not women? so I changed that to kemben bc that's what wikipedia said indonesian women wear traditionally and it's considered feminine and I honestly don't know if that's right or not but if I hecked up pls correct me thank you  
> edit to add: thank u 04pilot for the youtube video w/more information! correction has been made  
> also yeah in the original kuroo sang a russian translation of problem by ariana grande so that part was easy to translate. or untranslate I guess lol  
> also sorry for the wait! next chapter's already about a third of the way done tho and it's a Fun one  
> thank u jamie for betaing again <>


	13. Chapter 13

“Disobeyed orders.”

Oh, please!

“Stole my car.”

Borrowed, not stole.

“Got shot.”

Well, okay, bit of a blunder there, but who doesn’t have one of those every once in a while?

“Started a road race running from the cops.”

Big deal!

“Scratched my car.”

Now that’s just nitpicking.

“And all of this — not even a few hours after you got out of the Cartel’s prison! Please explain to me, just explain,” — Yaku desperately spreads his palms out and waves his hand. “How the fuck does all this come into your head? What part of your body are you thinking with when you’re pulling this fucking shit?”

Kuroo pouts and turns away. Yaku’s standing over him like a mother whose teenage son ran away from home and was returned the next day by the cops — at least, the tortured tone of voice is pretty much spot-on.

The doctor — an elderly Pakistani woman he’d already visited a few hours earlier — is looking at him skeptically and shaking her head. Her assistant, a young and pretty Indonesian girl, is spinning in a whirlwind around the spacious room, bringing towels, bandages, tweezers. Kuroo winks at her — at least he didn’t get a black eye this time — and she blushes scarlet.

“Don’t ignore me!” Yaku kicks him in the shin, hard.

“Ow! Are you crazy?” Kuroo pulls his knee to his chest, but that offends his ribs. “Fu-u-u-u-ck... Doc, get him outta here! He’s interfering with my recovery!”

“You took my fucking car without asking, and I’m the crazy one?”

“I am a victim! A vic-tim! Stop yelling at me!”

“Stop making such a sad face, you’re not Bokuto, it won’t work with you!”

“How are you a priest when you don’t have a heart!”

“How are you a conscious human being when you don’t have brains!”

“I will escort both of you out,” the doctor notes calmly, reappearing from the back room and throwing a scarf over Kuroo’s shoulder. The bullet went all the way through, it’s already been stitched and bandaged, and he’s been ordered to move his arm less. And now this little old lady is walking around him and bending — Kuroo winces — his arm, setting it into a sling.

“I have brains,” he answers after a pause. “And you don’t have to escort us, Auntie.” He smiles his most charming smile at her. The doctor is unmoved. “We can walk ourselves out.”

She nods, pulling a tiny tube out of the glass dresser drawers, squeezing some clear gel out and carefully, with dry fingers rubbing the gel into his cheek.

“Of course you’ll walk yourselves out,” she says. “The only patients who stay permanently are the ones who won’t walk again at all. How did you manage to reopen the injury on your face, boy?”

“You got hit twice by a kid who doesn’t even know how to shoot,” Yaku adds, in the tone of someone delivering a terminal diagnosis. “Doesn’t seem like a person with brains.”

“And you, priest, nearly broke your cast against your novice,” the doctor points out. Kuroo turns his expression of “Well, well,” on the instantly silent Yaku. “You almost caused another fracture.”

Look into these eyes, Yaku. Look into these eyes and understand how many jokes at your expense await you, you person with brains.

“You, dark-haired one.” The doctor shoves the tube of gel at him. “Reapply every two hours or it’ll scar. And now shoo.” She waves a hand in the direction of the doors. Kuroo fixes the sling around his arm, thanks her and stands up.

The assistant girl cheerfully asks, curiously and shyly looking up at him through her eyelashes. “Should I call you a car to the Mistress’s house?”

“Thanks, we’ll walk,” Yaku, always careful with girls, answers politely and pushes Kuroo to the exit.

Kuroo bursts into laughter the minute they’re outside. “Bro, did you seriously beat up Lev with your cast?”

Yaku frowns and doesn’t reply, just pulls a cigarette out and lights up — he’s wearing a t-shirt cut open on one side and baggy pants about three sizes too big on him, but rolled up and tightly fastened with a belt. Apparently he did get some masculine clothing from the Sisters — with shouting and threats, most likely.

His plastered arm is also in a sling, and from the side they now look like two One-Armed Joes: Kuroo’s left and Yaku’s right.

The cigarette smoke gets into Kuroo’s nose, and he sneezes, then groans. His face isn’t in a condition to deal with this level of muscle activity.

“So, conspiring with Washijou?” Yaku sighs.

“Yup,” Kuroo agrees, eloquently and tiredly. Everything he could’ve explained, he explained while his arm was getting sewn up. 

They’re slowly — mostly because of Kuroo, who’s started to limp — walking along a narrow street of two-story dark blue houses with traditional Jakartan red roof tiles.

The Elder Sisters own a quarter in Tangerang, surrounded by an electric fence. A whole region of exclusive matriarchy that no one in the big three would ever dare touch. Not that they don’t like to deal with the Sisters: they love working with them, but no one is ready to fight with them.

“Listen, explain to me this,” Yaku says in a fairly serious tone. “I’ve known you for how many years now, ten?”

“Fourteen, dude,” Kuroo retorts.

Yaku ignores him. “And in all this time you’ve only recklessly thrown yourself under gunfire a few times, and even that was, if I recall correctly, in impossible situations — the rest of the time you’ve always had some kind of plan. Yeah, a stupid plan, yeah, completely batshit, but you still had one.”

He turns towards Kuroo and looks at him with a calculating, heavy gaze. Definitely not the kind of holy Father Kuroo would want to confess his sins to.

“What the hell happened this time?”

There’s another five minutes of walking to the Mistress’s house, central in the quarter. Kuroo urgently tries to come up with a way to stretch out the jokes, tangents and subject changes for that time. And even opens his mouth.

“Nope,” Yaku beats him to it. “That’s not gonna work.”

Kuroo snaps his jaw shut and winces instantly.

“What are you, my psychologist?”

His deliberate cheer evaporates. What’s left is exhaustion pressing into his shoulders, a heavy head, an aching body, a pulsing arm and dull, prickly anger — mostly at himself. Fuck this arm, fuck this trip to the Service. He got stuck at the top of Hamaima Tower that time because of his own Fucking Burst of Chivalry. FBC, Kuroo decides instantly, bans the subject for himself and promises to tell Bokuto about the term because he’ll appreciate it.

“Go on,” Yaku calmly agrees with his rudeness. “One more word in that direction and I’ll shoot your other arm.”

Kuroo irritably, heavily sighs and speeds up. Maybe this healer of world’s souls won’t catch up to him on his short legs?

Yaku catches up in two steps. Drat.

“Why’re you so pissed?” Yaku spits out. “Yeah, you saved a kid, yeah, you fucked yourself over with your own altruism, chill out already.”

Kuroo speeds up even more.

He’s not going to talk about this now.

They stop at the Mistress’s house. It’s three stories, squeezed between two smaller buildings, but the richest in appearance: rough-hewn stone, big windows glowing in the gloom of the late evening, wide porch with two young women standing by the doors.

Yaku catches up to him by the decorative iron gates and sighs, looking up at Kuroo. “Maybe you should have a smoke?”

“I barely quit.” Kuroo waves him off. “Now’s not exactly the best time to start again.”

“I think it’s the ideal time. The situation’s not exactly outstanding.” He grimaces.

Kuroo doesn’t understand. “You mean? We got the sacred tablets in the end, you don’t have to ruin the joy with your sour-ass face!”

“Let’s go inside.” He throws the cigarette butt on the road and stomps it in, raising a cloud of dust. “They’ll tell you everything there.”

“Am I not going to like this? Am I really not going to like this?”

“Yup.” And suddenly Yaku smirks. “Well, I’ve got a surprise for you, too.”

And son of a bitch, he really isn’t lying.

***

For as long as Kuroo can remember, he’s always gone to Raandu exclusively to get drunk. The Sisters charged an awful lot — way too much for the salary of a standard priest. It was way easier to offer a cocktail to a pretty foreign girl in the Queen Elisabeth and see what happened.

So, yeah: Kuroo’s always gone to Raandu to get drunk. Not even to get drunk — to get absolutely fucking wasted, since the company there was always incredible.

Inside the house they’re met by two more pretty ladies. Kuroo doesn’t try to guess their professions. Both young: a cute Chinese girl and a very cute Indian girl in green kebayas with carefully styled hair and impeccable manners. The ladies easily guess that the two gentlemen aren’t here for conversation and silently escort them to the dining hall on the second floor.

And in the dining hall the dumbass circus starts.

The best parties of Kuroo’s lives all happened exactly here, and Saeko — more commonly known as the Mistress — drank well without him, too. And that broke Kuroo’s heart.

“Yo, no way!” She exclaims. It seems like she wants to wave and say hello, but there’s a cup with something alcoholic in her hand and it turns into a toast. She’s a few years older than Kuroo, but joking about how she’s coming up on forty is a sure path to the guillotine, because the subject of the Mistress’s age in Raandu is taboo. A light-blond bob, dozens of red braided bracelets on her arms, colorful sarong, bare feet with bright-red nails and bright-red lipstick on her face. “You’re here! And even alive!” she cheers and drinks.

To their reunion, uh-huh. Amen.

“Nice to see you alive, Tetsurou!” She’s wearing difficult-to-describe effervescent fabrics in every shade from gold to orange.

“And you as well, Saeko.” Kuroo nods from the threshold.

“Come on in, don’t just stand there.” She claps her hands, the sleeves of her embroidered robe slide down to her elbows, she smiles and adds, “Morisuke, you too!”

If Kuroo had the opportunity, he’d think about how ambiguous that sounds, considering that she and Yaku couldn’t stand each other. Although, considering who could in principle stand Yaku...on this Kuroo and Saeko were always in agreement, because with both of them Yaku acted like they were some kind of divine punishment for him specifically.

The dining hall — one of the biggest rooms in this house — reveals through panoramic windows the roofs of other houses and skyscrapers in other regions. Not the most scenic, but there’s not a lot of scenic spots in Jakarta. Kuroo glances at the fat round side of the moon peeking into the window and suddenly realizes just how tired he is.

Without leaving his spot, he examines the feast — a long traditionally low table with pillows instead of chairs, and everyone sitting around it — and adds, “And you as well, Bishop.” 

Nekomata looks at him like at an unfavorite son who’d come to ruin the party, and then smiles, which feels horrible.

“And you, uh,” God let him remember these names, “Tatsuki, Yamato, sorry dude, can’t remember your name, Haruki and ummmmm, Wataru.” The Japanese death squad looks fairly tipsy already, but greet Kuroo in a very validating manner. He raises one hand and finishes, “And you, Konoha and Suguru. But you, Shirofuku, not really.”

And he goes straight towards Saeko, moving his legs with an effort. He wants to already lie down on the soft round beds of the Elder Sisters — he doesn’t even need one of the Sisters by his side, either, because right now Kuroo only has the energy to put his head down on a pillow and sle...

The realization finally reaches the necessary part of his brain and giggles meanly.

Kuroo hesitates mid-step and almost flies down onto the tiger-embroidered pillows.

But he stays standing.

And doesn’t manage to hold himself back from exclaiming, “What the actual fucking fuck!”

And Yaku doesn’t even hit him for yelling. Just smirks to himself, because apparently, this is funny to him.

“You!” Kuroo indignantly pokes a finger at the alive, unharmed and sipping ballo from a wide bamboo saucer Suguru Daishou. “You!”

“You’re so observant,” Daishou answers with a sour expression. “It’s really me.”

“I’m gonna kick your ass,” Kuroo informs him, straightening up.

“No you won’t.” Daishou flips him the bird.

He’s still the same: mousy hair parted to one side, narrow face with an even pointier chin, both ears pierced, smug expression like he knows more than everyone else present. Ninety nine percent of the time that’s not even true.

Three years have done absolutely nothing to his smooth face or his personality. And Daishou’s personality, according to Kuroo, can be best described like this: Do Everything Specifically to Spite Kuroo Tetsurou.

“I’ll kick your ass!”

“No you won’t.”

“I will!” Kuroo panics, kicking his cup aside. It rolls along the table, spilling its contents, and continues rolling almost to Bokuto’s crew, which, unfortunately, does not contain Bokuto himself. They stare drunkenly at the cup for a few seconds, and then burst into laughter.

And honestly, no one’s even paying attention to Daishou and Kuroo. Yaku’s merely observing, Nekomata’s occasionally glancing at them while talking to Naoi and Kai, Saeko is drinking next to Lev and Alisa.

“Are you mental?” Kuroo grabs him by the collar of his t-shirt with his healthy arm, pulling the shirt up and wrapping it around his fist— Daishou’s scrawny chicken neck is completely hidden by the fabric. He’s peeking out from there, angry and almost hurt, and demanding that Kuroo “let go immediately.” Like anyone’s gonna listen to this guy.

“Triad? Seriously?” Kuroo feels like a mom who caught her kid doing drugs.

Daishou, however, doesn’t get an answer out before Kuroo yanks his head down by the collar and slams his head against the table.

A very aggressive MMA Champion mom.

“You’re crazy!” Daishou jumps up, clutching the left side of his face.

“Seriously?” Kuroo asks again, spreading his arms out. Like, first “Seriously? Triad?” and now “Seriously? I’m the crazy one?”

Daishou’s upper lip rises predatorily, and he himself sits back down, and his face is the most spiteful Kuroo’s ever seen it. Like Kuroo’s the one to blame here. But Kuroo is not to blame. “Suguru, you’re fucking stupid,” he earnestly informs him, grabbing a piece of fried meat from the communal dish with his healthy hand.

Daishou narrows his eyes to the shape of coin deposit slits in a coffee vending machine.

“I know you are but what am I,” the genius retorts.

They’re both over thirty, and their dialogues are always mature and constructive.

Seeing him alive is a pleasant surprise. Not that Kuroo’s over the moon about this, or that his life’s purpose has been fulfilled, but they’ve known each other for so long, and Daishou’s spent so much of that time behaving like a moron with suicidal tendencies, that every time Kuroo finds him alive and moving is exactly a pleasant and highly unexpected surprise.

Kuroo is a hundred percent certain that Daishou thinks the same of him.

“What’re you even doing here?” Kuroo asks Daishou, and then immediately turns around and demands, “Saeko, what’s he doing here?”

Saeko’s distracted from sharing a drink of something with Nekomata, looks at Daishou for a few seconds with an expression of “who the fuck is this” and cheerfully replies, “Well, he showed up. Said he’s your friend,” — Kuroo chokes on air and stares at Daishou uncomprehendingly; so many years of rivalry, only to find out that they were, in fact, friends all along. — “People in this town don’t usually throw that kind of declaration around.”

Kuroo takes a second to consider assuming a dignified air and then realizes that was more of a stone in his yard than a compliment.

“Ah, yes, I see now.” He nods gratefully, like, thank you for sheltering my buddy, turns back to Daishou (who’s still rubbing his jaw) and stretches his lips into a smile. “Well, pal...” The pal grimaces artfully. “Do tell. What even happened? How much of an idiot do you have to be to end up in this much shit?”

Daishou opens his mouth to answer, but Kuroo indicates with his hand that he’s not done yet. “The Triad, my guy. The fucking Triad. You were never particularly intelligent, but this is the peak of your idiocy. I can’t even wrap my head around it, you just—”

“Can you just stop already?” Daishou shoves his pointy elbow into Kuroo’s ribs, right into a fresh bruise, but Kuroo pretends not to notice, just wrinkles his nose, which could pass for “you’re so stupid I can’t even bear to look at you.”

“What the fuck happened to you?” Kuroo shrugs his injured shoulder, testing its capabilities.

“None of your business,” Daishou hisses.

“Well then go to Hell.” Kuroo waves him off.

“You go to Hell.” And then he growls, like he remembers something. “You broke into my house, scared Mika and waved a weapon in front of her! What’s wrong with you?!”

“Your Mika waved a bat in front of me!” Kuroo’s indignant in response. That’s how it always is. They meet and it’s off to the races. In the process of remembering who did what to whom they could even get to that blasted ear from age sixteen. But Kuroo hesitates. “Wait, where did you hear that from? Did Yaku tell you?”

“No,” Daishou grumbles irritably, folding his thin arms on the table. He probably weighs even less than that gangly Tsukishima. 

The spark of thoughts about that asshole forces Kuroo to feel the already forgotten pulsing pain in his arm again. He mentally slaps himself into focus and concentrates on the discussion.

“So I know the part of the story where you decided to screw over Terushima...” 

“Just try to scold me for that, you’ve never liked that kid.” Daishou rolls his eyes.

“Bamboozled Oikawa...”

“It’s a crime not to bamboozle that prick.”

“And found yourself a Japanese gang to buy them off you.”

Daishou defiantly throws a grape into his mouth and shrugs his shoulders. “They found me themselves. And then,” — he grows somber — “that idiot Terushima decided it was his turn.”

“And stole the money from you, and the goods from those guys? Good for him.”

“Fuck off.” Daishou winces disgustedly, and Kuroo suddenly wants to drag his face across the table again. “Yeah. And then Han’s men found me. Found out I was participating in reselling the stereoplates without their express permission. Would’ve killed me if I didn’t promise to bring them both the money and Ukai’s treasures.”

“Yeah, I get that you were under the knife,” Kuroo agrees. “You’re fucked in the head, of course, but not so much you’d go to rob the Cartel yourself.”

“Out of the two of us, you’re the one who’s fucked in the head.” Daishou smiles unpleasantly. “And I’m enterprising.”

“Shmenterprising,” Kuroo grumbles. “What happened next? How’d you get out of there alive? I don’t believe they let your enterprising little self go, even after you delivered everything.”

Daishou can’t resist and waves his hand, like, don’t even ask about that. Kuroo continues to stare straight into his forehead. So Daishou grabs another saucer, pours, drinks and continues.

“Ran away. Ran all over Java for a week, until they got bored — or wait, maybe there was something serious happening in the city, but Han called his people off. Waited a few more days in a village on the other side of the island and came back into town. Return at my own risk and discover, my apartment’s empty, the window’s broken.” He pours himself some more. “Got so fucking scared for her, dude, you don’t even know. And there’s so many suspects — Cartel, Terushima —” “Nah, that guy wouldn’t,” Kuroo thinks. “Triad... Went to find out who saw what. And then someone tells me: the sma...” — he glances at Yaku sitting two spaces away and corrects himself — “priest from Lascano and some dude” — he smiles again — “with a terrible haircut. Speaking of, yeah...”

“...What is that on your head?” Saeko giggles, listening to the conversation with half an ear.

Kuroo wants to get angry at these constant attacks on his attractiveness, but he doesn’t have the energy for rage anymore: all of his seething, frothing, teeth-baring wrath was left at a shitty motel suite on the edge of town earlier that day. 

So he smiles. “A work of art,” he says, and gets back on topic. “Anyway, I get the gist: found out it’s us, found out where we are, and came here.” Reaches up to scratch his brow, but gets stuck on a crust of dried blood. They’d taken Mika out and hid her on his second day in Jakarta, after visiting her apartment, so that neither the Chinese nor the Cartel could get to her. “Why didn’t you go to her?”

“Didn’t want to set her up in case I was being followed.” Daishou shrugs. “But your Kai let me contact her. It’s better I hang out here until everything dies down. Especially since there’s fun things to do here.” He pours himself another shot.

“God, how does she even stand you?” Kuroo says, but takes the bottle from Daishou and pours himself some as well; tomorrow is likely to be another torturous day, but he could get wasted today. “When are y’all getting married?”

“Well, we...”

Kuroo takes a few seconds to process Daishou’s hesitance, and then turns around quickly, spraying alcohol out of the tilted bottle and scrambling. “When? Did you wait for me to leave town to get hitched?”

“Year and a half ago.” Daishou shrugs. “Something like that, I think.”

“That makes sense, you’ve been together for so long!” Kuroo tries to count, but then decides that a better solution to this mathematical equation would be another drink. “Since we were twenty?”

Daishou nods, like, yeah, since twenty. Kuroo whistles. That’s a long-ass time. Practically a family life. Mentally crosses out the word “practically.” God, this dumbass fucking got married, what a nightmare, poor Mika.

“What’re you planning on doing after all this bacchanalia?”

“Scrape together some cash” — Kuroo’s face says “oh yeah, since you already tried that once” way too clearly, and Daishou kicks him under the table — “and fly away somewhere. All this noise about the stereoplates is practically sitting in my kidneys now.”

“That reminds me,” Kuroo drawls, and then turns to Yaku, looks at Nekomata and says louder, drawing attention to himself, “What’s up with the sacred tablets?”

“Sacred tablets?” Daishou quirks a thin eyebrow, skeptical.

“That’s what this smartass calls the stereoplates,” Yaku comments, putting some meat on his plate.

“The sacred tablets,” the bishop says, and from his mouth it really does sound stupid, “turned out to be fake.”

And the friendly wrinkles around Nekomata’s eyes, evidently brought out by something he was discussing with Saeko, disappear entirely.

What does he mean, fake?

What does he mean?

“You’re joking.” Kuroo runs a hand through his hair. “Please say you’re—”

“You don’t think this is maybe not the best subject for jokes?” Nekomata smiles dangerously, Yaku hides his eyes with his hand.

“I think. I mean I don’t think. I mean.” Kuroo nods with an earnest expression on his face, locking his hands together. “I am in complete agreement with you, sir.” And then blurts out with round eyes, “What the fuck? When did they have time to switch them? Was it the Cartel’s fakes?”

“Unclear.” Nekomata shakes his head, takes a big sip from his glass, frowns and continues. “Akaashi Keiji, according to his own sources, said they were placed in a safe at Rawasari Center on that same day and they haven’t been transported since.”

His voice isn’t suspicious, it’s worried. Bokuto definitely told the whole story, since he trusts Akaashi completely and knows Akaashi would never betray them, but it’s still hard to believe that after a few days in Jakarta he could find out what the locals couldn’t manage for weeks. Unless you knew Akaashi.

“Do you know him?” Nekomata asks, and Kuroo doesn’t even know how to answer that.

“Since that kerfluffle in Guadalajara.” He nods. “Like two years now? Thereabouts.” And confidently adds, “He’s the best.”

“Never heard of him,” Daishou interjects rudely.

“That’s why you haven’t.” Kuroo grabs a salad leaf from a far plate and starts chewing it. “The best, I said. Remember the mess around the Old Pinakothek around five years back? ‘The Death of Cleopatra’ by Liss, stolen between two authenticity checks. They checked in February — apparently genuine. In June — nope. And they don’t know when it was switched.”

Kuroo would not know any of these details if Bokuto, who also doesn’t know shit about fine art, didn’t go on and on about the whole thing for ages.

“Nah, that’s not possible.”

Nekomata, the old fox, listens silently: calculating something already. 

“Not the only case.” Kuroo shrugs briefly; he’s not Bokuto to hype up Akaashi blindly, yeah? “He probably walked in, took the painting down, looked at the security guards like ‘this is necessary’ and hung up the fake a few minutes later. And here, I wouldn’t be surprised if Washijou didn’t hold the elevator door open when he was taking out the sacred tablets.”

“No way. Is he even human?” Daishou snorts disbelievingly.

Kuroo spreads his arms wide, like, I don’t know and I don’t have any ideas, and in the middle of the gesture indicates the door with his hand — like, see for yourself.

Akaashi stands in the doorway and at first glance really does look like an ordinary man. A man so pretty it hurts to look at him for too long, tru, but that’s a technicality. Kuroo’s had time to get used to it over the few times he’s met the guy, but an unprepared viewer needs a few seconds to catch their breath after it.

Saeko at the head of the table props her chin up on one hand and dreamily says, “What a beauty, like, wow...” and then louder: “Come in, sit down! Bokuto Koutarou, you must drink with me!”

Bokuto Koutarou, taking up two thirds of the doorway beside Akaashi, is noticed second. The Armageddon Squad in his name drunkenly greets the new arrivals, Akaashi smoothly avoids the cacophony and moves towards them, nodding politely.

Kuroo smirks, but even he feels slightly calmer.

He knows for certain: there is nothing that Akaashi Keiji can’t handle.

***

Later in the night, when the noisy military men go to bed — and only Bokuto’s left — the dining hall goes very quiet. Kuroo’s starting to feel the alcohol: he leans his healthy shoulder against Bokuto and laughs at jokes he can’t really understand anymore. His shoulder barely hurts now, at least, not after two bottles of ballo. Yaku (the only one who doesn’t drink much) and Akaashi (the only one who doesn’t drink at all) also fell victim to the general atmosphere: the former is barely yelling, even at Lev, the latter is almost smiling. Bokuto and Saeko are laughing uproariously and drinking more than anyone. Kuroo doesn’t want to think about his problems, about the fact that the sacred tablets are fake or about the Americans hiding out somewhere in the city, or the Cartel who’s going to try to kill them all sooner or later. Or about Tsukishima, who’s a separate point entirely.

He pours himself some more.

But when Nekomata puts his elbows on the table with a more serious expression, and Naoi on his right hand side looks around at everyone, Kuroo sighs and knocks back his last shot — their break is over. Time to work.

“So.” Nekomata folds his hands under his chin. “The plates. Fake.”

“They’re not gonna get any less fake if you keep repeating it,” Kuroo grumbles. “Remember I said I didn’t like this whole situation? I still don’t like it!”

“Is it time for serious discussions of your working process?” Saeko brushes her hair behind her ears and stands, smoothing out the folds in her stylish robe. “Then I’m going to bed, I think, and I’ll call the servants off this floor too.”

It takes her about half a minute to leave properly: they all take one last drink, and then she does head out.

“She’s cool,” Bokuto yawns, covering his mouth with his fist.

No arguments there: not about Saeko’s coolness, or the yawning.

“Back to the point,” Nekomata orders.

“We have to find out if the Cartel has the originals.” Kai’s tapping a finger against his lips.

“This needs a Wickedly Clever Pla—” Kuroo starts, not actually wanting to come up with a Wickedly Clever Plan. 

“Shut up.” A chorus, with Yaku as the lead soloist.

“If you have any better ideas,” Kuroo says with the phrase “but you don’t” practically written on his forehead, “do share with the class.”

“We should just meet with the Cartel and find out directly,” Yaku answers.

Yaku just loves finding things out directly, but Kuroo’s so fucking fed up with his own high-concept plans crumbling to pieces that this time he actually agrees with him.

“Your priest just suggested we solve this with a brawl?” Daishou asks, like anyone was talking to him in the first place. Why’s he still here, shouldn’t he be calling Mika and crying at her over the phone by now? Or sleeping? Getting into new, different problems?

“Hi, we’re in Jakarta, every nun has a Sig Sauer over here,” Kuroo replies sourly.

“Could the Secret Service have the originals? Judging by the situation with Kuroo-san, their leader seems fairly intelligent,” Akaashi says suddenly.

“Bo, how could you! Did you tell him everything?” Kuroo frowns indignantly.

“Uhhh, yeah, so what about the Americans?” Bokuto asks.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Could this be their work?”

“Bo, stop ignoring me.”

“I also thought about them,” Yaku says, ignoring them both and spinning his chopsticks in one hand.

“Well, if it’s really them,” Kuroo grits out, “then they’re not coming back to their Land of the Free alive.”

And apparently, he says this so angrily Daishou’s expression stretches even further in surprise. And not just him: even Akaashi turns to look at him, and Kuroo thinks that the dark scanners of Akaashi’s eyes are reading off all his information like he’s a barcode.

Bokuto sighs very loudly and somehow sympathetically. Yaku sighs like he’s absolutely sick of dealing with this.

“Ignore him,” he says. “He jumped off the roof of Hamaima Tower for one of their dudes, who then dropped him to save his own ass and left Kuroo to deal with their security guards.”

“And?” Akaashi asks.

Kuroo glares at him darkly. “What do you mean and?”

“And so what?” It seems he genuinely doesn’t get it. “If I understand the situation correctly, you would’ve had to share the plates with the Service anyway, if you had managed to get them. And, naturally, that would not have ended peacefully. I find it rational,” — he shrugs — “that they saved their own man. Moreover: I think their retreat plan was created to steal the plates from you even before leaving the tower. A fairly logical sequence of events. Why are you so stuck on it?”

Like Kuroo didn’t understand all this himself, thanks!

“I would prefer to be betrayed at a scheduled time,” he retorts weakly, although it’s not even worth answering at this point.

“Bro, that was totally expected.” Bokuto throws his hands up.

Don’t just agree with Akaashi on everything.

“It’s a shitty reason to worry,” Yaku pulls his mouth to one side irritably.

“Not really... Kuroo-san is reacting like...” Akaashi smooths out an embroidered napkin under his empty and clean plate. “Like no one has ever betrayed him or tried to lie to him ever in his life. Why this extravaganza of emotions?”

“He caught feelings for their brainy one.” Yaku snickers.

“And ended up with a broken heart,” Kuroo snarks back, although the moment of lighthearted petty doesn’t conceal the dourness that follows. “And let’s close this topic. What’re we doing, now?”

Nekomata, having allowed them to go on a tangent for a bit and silently watching their squabbles, supports the development of this idea. “The main suspect for such a quality forgery is, obviously, the Sunrise Cartel. Then the Service. Let’s check them first, see what they say, and go from there.” He gazes thoughtfully at the table. “From the outside they’re practically indistinguishable from the original... Almost like Ikkei himself made them.” He sighs. “Of course, you can’t print money with them, it’s just a wax model. But what a wax model!”

“So, Cartel, then?” Kuroo clarifies, who’s too done to listen to this guy praise some fake sacred tablets at four in the morning. “We’re gonna go fight the Cartel?”

“And what’ll you tell them?” Daishou drawls mockingly. He wants to say something else, but shuts up at Nekomata’s glance.

“We won’t tell them anything,” Yaku gives him a pointed glance as well. “We’ll just —”

“Offer to sell them the sacred tablets!” Kuroo blurts out suddenly.

Everyone turns to look at him.

“Meaning?” the bishop asks.

“Meaning we conducted a complicated operation, blew up their headquarters and hired a first-class thief... to sell the goods back to them?” Yaku asks.

“And why not? First of all, you didn’t blow up the HQ, the best man in my life did. Bo.” He and Bokuto high-five. “And second, thirteen million euros don’t grow on trees. Do you have thirteen mill, padre?”

The bishop doesn’t answer, but Kuroo understands and steps back.

“If they want to meet and talk about the sacred tablets — it’s not their fake. If they don’t buy it, that means they’re aware. But we’re not gonna talk with Washijou or Tendou.” He grimaces. “I’ve had enough of those two, thanks. Let’s go with Ushiwaka — I broke his arm last time, he’s down 10 HP already!”

There’s still billions of seconds ahead, but if they imagine for a second that this isn’t the Cartel’s handiwork, and the good bandits will come for serious negotiations to the tune of thirteen million, then Ushijima is the most painless representative of the Cartel for them to deal with.

“And how would we get in touch with him?” Kai asks.

Yaku scratches his chin as well. “Should we send a carrier pigeon or something?”

“Let’s start by writing a text,” Kuroo chuckles.

And despite the fact that this was the stupidest plan...

...or maybe because it was the stupidest plan...

...everyone agrees.

***

In reality, this whole thing looks like the start of a massive shootout, Kuroo thinks, swinging his legs back and forth. He’s sitting on the hood of a car and playing with his phone — he had to buy a new one — in one hand. It’s like they’d set up a war camp: four cars in a row, Yaku and Yamamoto are smoking, discussing something, Shirofuku’s eating again, Konoha’s lazing about inside the Hummer, Lev’s running around the factory. Bokuto stands next to Kuroo himself, leaning against the open door, and is cheerfully chatting about nothing.

“...yeah so I tell him...”

Kuroo smacks him on the shoulder with his phone and nods at the massive freight entrances to the factory, which haven’t had doors in years. Bokuto quiets, and then clicks his tongue and reaches into the car for a weapon.

“Lev,” Yaku hollers, “get your ass over here! And get in the car!”

The Cartel’s motorcade slowly rolls into the factory, one after the other.

They — five absolutely identical BMWs — stop directly in front of the Church’s vehicles, and Kuroo smirks. He’s seen this before somewhere. Oh yeah, except that time there was only one car and instead of the local bad boys some foreign bad boys climbed out of it.

He associates his three days in the basement with both of those groups now — but when Tendou climbs out of the car, meeting Kuroo’s gaze with a grin, Kuroo — unable to stop himself — remembers dead Yaku again.

If he was a little more sensitive and easily wounded, he’d have shot them all to hell already.

The Sunrise Cartel’s group, about ten people with Tendou and Ushijima at the head, line up in front of their cars parallel to the Church. Each one of them, on either side, carries an automatic or a pistol. Nobody came unprepared.

“We’re here,” Ushijima summarizes, without a single emotion in his voice.

“We see that,” Yaku snorts, stepping forward and shoving Kuroo to the side with a shoulder. Although moving Kuroo away from the events unfolding is unlikely to be that simple.

“Kuroo, Kuroo, Kuuuuroooo,” Tendou drawls, stopping next to Ushijima and bending his shaggy head down.

“Tendou, Tendou, Tendou?” Kuroo raises his eyebrow. “Is that how I’m supposed to answer?”

Tendou just smirks. Hey, nobody actually invited him to this party. So Kuroo’s within his rights to turn to Ushijima and ask him, “Why did you bring this ginger witch with you?” He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “We’d agreed to keep this between us!”

“We did not agree to that,” Ushijima answers, unperturbed, and Kuroo decides not to press the issue — Ushijima looks like a person capable of pulling out his phone and proving that the message sent to him by the Church reads exactly as “Salemba Raya, abandoned automobile factory, Friday at six, we’re prepared to exchange the plates for thirteen million” and does not say anything about keeping anything “between us.”

Kuroo would like to tell a cool story with clever plans about how they acquired Ushijima’s personal phone number, but really, there isn’t any cool story.

There is Akaashi Keiji.

“And why are our holy men out of uniform? Yaku, if you weren’t so tiny, I wouldn’t have even recognized you!”

Lev frowns unpleasantly, Kuroo notices; maybe he’s upset on his boss’s behalf. And Yaku, surprisingly, just shrugs. “Like I give a shit. Did you bring the money?”

“Show us the plates first,” Tendou demands, “and explain what the fuck all this means.”

Yaku gestures to Kai, who walks to the car under the watchful gaze of everyone, and opens his mouth, when Kuroo interrupts him.

“Oh, Bokuto, look,” he laughs suddenly, poking his friend in the side with his healthy elbow. “It’s the Future Head of the Cartel. Goshiki! Yo, Go-shi-ki!”

Behind the Cartel’s backs, somewhere between an unfamiliar dude and Semi Eita stands Goshiki Tsutomu. He’s glaring first at Kuroo, then at Bokuto, and then turns away.

“Dude, he doesn’t like us.”

“We don’t like him either,” Bokuto answers smarmily, continuing to glare daggers at the kid. Kuroo pats him on the shoulder.

“Chill out, don’t yell at kid—”

“Shut up,” Yaku cuts him off, picks up the suitcase handed to him and opens his mouth again.

And then a random whistle sounds, and someone yells.

As it turns out — Goshiki Tsutomu.

As it turns out — Goshiki Tsutomu with a shot leg.

And maybe, Kuroo doesn’t understand what the fuck just happened and who shot, but Kuroo understands perfectly what’s going to happen now.

“Are you  _ fucking insane! _ ” Tendou yells, turning towards them. Well obviously, what else is it going to look like now, except a  _ trap. _ “Shoot them!”

And that’s when the aforementioned mass shootout begins. 

***

“Who started shooting?” Yaku shouts from behind the car door. The thunderstorm of gunshots rings in their ears. This time none of their stuff is bulletproof— alas.

Kuroo has no idea. Kuroo fires back, rolls behind the car, trying to keep his injured arm out of the way, and forces himself to think: from where? Who? Why the fuck?

“Fuck!” Yaku unloads his Beretta into the Cartel’s warriors and reaches into the car for a fresh clip. Kuroo understands, he’s also completely uncomfortable with one arm. Then Yaku turns back around, looks somewhere behind him, and jabs at Kuroo with his gun. “Kuroo! Cover Lev!”

God, how he worries about this kid!

Kuroo turns around and crawls across the cement floor to Lev, who’d managed to find himself a gun from fuck-knows-where and is now also firing at the Cartel from behind the car doors. Kuroo kicks him in the shins. Lev shouts and drops down. Kuroo stands up and shoves him into the car with one hand.

He doesn’t take the gun though, that would be too much.

“Stick your nose out again,” he says, poking Lev’s nose while bullets lodge themselves into the open door. “And Yaku will beat us both to death. Do you want to betray me like that?”

“No,” Lev answers honestly, but his massive green eyes keep looking over in the direction of the shootout.

And then sees.

Behind the massive metal platforms, under the machinery, crouching, a tall blond figure.

Kuroo only catches a silhouette — it’s gone in a second — but his insides have already been threaded on a hook and sharply pulled upwards. A hot wave hits the back of his head — his mind feels practically empty, the sound of the bullets and shouts fades: all he sees is the shortest and safest path to the platform.

“Tell Yaku,” Kuroo says without looking away from the direction he needs to go, blindly reloading his gun with one hand, “that the Americans are here and they’re the ones who shot first. Got it?”

And without even waiting for an answer, he moves.

***

Behind the platform is a dead end with one single door. Kuroo quickly estimates: either Tsukishima wants to chase him into a trap, or is trying to get out himself but has no idea where anything is. Kuroo’s more inclined to believe the latter: Tsukishima has considerable issues with running in unfamiliar places and making decisions in extreme situations.

Kuroo pushes the door with his healthy shoulder, listens close. It leads to a staircase below, no audible footsteps, just the gunshots from above.

After a second he starts climbing down.

Kuroo tries to go quietly, but his own steps seem unacceptably loud. He remembers: Tsukishima’s a godawful fighter, but you don’t need any particular skills to shoot from around a corner.

What brought the Americans to a meeting between the Cartel and the Church is obvious to even an idiot — and Kuroo, despite the opposite opinion and pointed commentary of Yaku, wasn’t an idiot. The poor pitiful Service had at once been left without allies, without a hero to generate amazing clever plans, and without an opportunity to execute those plans. Unsurprising that they’re closely observing the movements of the Cartel and Church, that’s probably how they got here.

The real question is: what’s their plan?

Below turns out to be a small corridor with high ceilings and a few old creaky metal doors. There’s nowhere to go from here, and Kuroo smirks, lifting his gun.

Ran yourself right into a corner, boy.

“Five, four, three, two, one,” he singsongs, “ready or not, here I come.” Holds out a pause and adds, “to shoot your blond head straight through.”

He doesn’t manage to wait. Kuroo steps carefully, holding the gun in his bent arm, and listens. First pair of doors. The one on the left has a rusted hanging lock, the one on the right is blocked by boxes.

“This’ll be quick.” Kuroo stops between the next set of doors.

The left one’s dented, like something crashed into the center of it with a lot of force, and locked. The one on the right is slightly closed. There’s a sound behind it.

Kuroo leans his back against the wall, grabs the doorhandle and whispers softly, “You won’t even notice it.”

It’s hard not to notice a hole in your forehead, though.

He shoves the door wide open, almost walks in, but jumps to one side in time: a rusty bucket flies at him. God, who greets guests like that? The bucket crashes into the opposite door with a ringing noise, Kuroo fires randomly at Tsukishima’s shoes, crosses the distance between them in two steps and kicks him in the stomach.

Tsukishima falls into a rack of empty boxes and cans of paint. The rack wobbles dangerously, but stays up. Tsukishima makes a stupid, entirely pointless step forward. In another situation Kuroo would’ve laughed, but not now and not with this guy.

“That won’t help you.” Kuroo grits his teeth and socks him in the jaw with his right hand.

Tsukishima tries to hit him in the solar plexus, but Kuroo hits his fingers with the barrel of the gun and chuckles humorlessly, “getting a bit too intimate, now.”

Tsukishima wipes blood off his split lip all over his face, looks angry and cornered, and Kuroo kicks him in the ribs and then behind his knees. Could hit him harder — till something crunches and breaks, but he doesn’t do that.

The anger boils, bubbles in his blood like carbonation; rage tickles the back of Kuroo’s mind. He’s grabbing the kid’s wrist so he’s moaning in pain. That’s not enough. Kuroo wants to hear him beg.

Remember that one time he said he sometimes gets completely distracted by rage?

This time it seems to Kuroo that every time he sees the cutesy face of Tsukishima Kei, something in his spinal cord lights up.

He picks Tsukishima up from his knees and pushes him to the wall. Tsukishima doesn’t protest and doesn’t look at the gun, only at Kuroo. He’s scared, Kuroo realizes with satisfaction. He’s really scared.

“Oh, relax.” His lips quirk. Judging by Tsukishima’s expression, they quirk very horribly. “I won’t hurt you.”

“You sound,” — Tsukishima swallows loudly, but still looks like he barely agreed to come here and is only spending time with Kuroo out of sheer politeness — “like a psychopath.”

“If you didn’t drive me to my limit, I wouldn’t act like a psychopath.”

He’s still holding a smile in his voice, but it’s on its last legs. His voice keeps getting lower and — Kuroo can’t do anything about this — more hysterical.

“So, no higher-ups to come and save you this time?” He steps closer.

Judging by how Tsukishima leans away from the gun, he’s barely holding himself back from jerking to one side — but he understands exactly how this is going to end.

Kuroo takes one more step.

Raises his gun and puts it to Tsukishima’s ear, barely covered by wavy blond hair.

“And no one’s jumping off the roof of a skyscraper for you, huh?” He tsks. “What a pity.”

Between their faces — a hand’s width, no more.

Kuroo drags the gun across his face. Catches on the glasses and pulls sharply, forcing them to fly to the concrete floor, jumping a few times.

“Don’t you think you’re reacting a bit harshly?”

Tsukishima Kei’s eyes are light-brown, with thin amber speckles around the pupil. A beautiful color.

Tsukishima Kei himself is — beautiful.

Attractive — and Kuroo relishes that marketing word in silence, slamming the metal edge of the muzzle against a sharp cheekbone. Not to hurt, but to harm.

“Attractive,” he repeats. Just attractive.

“You...” and he wants to say “bastard,” “beautiful,” wants to say, “bitch,” wants to say “ungrateful” and “done for.”

But ends up saying, “...left me to die.”

Tsukishima’s face, not his body, flinches.

“I fucking saved you.” Kuroo lets out a laugh. “You wouldn’t have gone two meters without me.” 

Evidently, Secret Service Agent Kei Tsukishima doesn’t like when he’s reminded that he’s only useful for crunching numbers in boring reports and cowardly escapes, so he just lifts his chin up. “Your own poor decision,” he squeezes out. “Nobody asked you to do that.”

“We agreed to it,” Kuroo spits, and he himself doesn’t understand why the hell every new word out of that swollen, bloody mouth makes him want to bash his teeth in more and more. “At your fucking apartment. You sat in front of me, were polite to me and agreed to accept my help.”

He takes a tiny step forward. He thinks he can hear a hysterical pulse beating — either his own or Tsukishimas. Or maybe the firefight’s moving closer to them.

“I,” Tsukishima’s voice sounds like he’s choking. “Didn’t... promise you anything.”

Kuroo brings the gun back to his temple, pressing in so it has to hurt.

“The alliance of the Service and the Church was... temporary in any case.”

Kuroo wants to shoot.

“Eventually we would’ve ended up... trying to kill each other.”

Kuroo wants to beat up his face.

“...they’ll have the stereoplates soon...”

Kuroo wants to beat up his own face.

“Soon I can go home...” Tsukishima rasps suddenly.

Kuroo can’t stop looking at him.

“...no life threatening work...”

Kuroo just needs to press the trigger.

“...ever again,” Tsukishima finishes in a hoarse whisper.

And then kisses him.

Kuroo’s hot and humid and everything inside him freezes from a tight knot of fury and pleasure — yes, yes, yes! — that he doesn’t even answer: he can’t and doesn’t want to.

What he does want, he’s already said.

“Go to Hell,” he growls, pushing Tsukishima away from himself. Tsukishima looks at him, humiliated, stubborn, fearless — the first time Kuroo sees such a range of emotions on his impassive face — like he doesn’t have a gun pointing at his temple still. “If you think my desire to fuck you changes anything, then go to fucking Hell, kid.”

Tsukishima launches at him full force — so for a second it seems like he just wants to knock Kuroo off his feet — but instead he mashes Kuroo’s mouth into a crude, fierce kiss. They bump chins, Kuroo tastes blood, and immediately after — Tsukishima’s tongue sliding across his teeth. And then he gives in, growls, pulls the kid on top of him by his waist — he knocks his entire skinny body into his bandaged arm, and Kuroo hisses with pain while Tsukishima licks the inside of his mouth. He presses back in response, pulling, biting, crushing. He wants to grab Tsukishima’s ass with his healthy arm, but the gun’s in the way.

“Wait,” Kuroo pants, trying to withdraw. “Wait, hold on.”

Tsukishima — he doesn’t even look twenty two without his glasses — moves away, breathing loudly and heavily. His swollen lips burn magenta on his pale face — Kuroo looks at them. Admires.

And hits Tsukishima in the face with the barrel of the gun.

His head moves as though in slow motion. Then Tsukishima looks up, touching his bleeding mouth and looks at Kuroo with shellshocked eyes. Kuroo feels a grim satisfaction — maybe the decision to shoot him on sight wasn’t the best option — but that feeling quickly vanishes. They’re standing in the very center of the room, shelves running alongside both of them. In one second, the surprise vanishes from Tsukishima’s face, and Kuroo just doesn’t have time to react — the knocked over shelf is already falling on him. He jumps sideways, covering his head with his good arm, and when he opens his eyes again, Tsukishima’s gone.

***

“Where’d you go this time?” Either Yaku’s tired of being angry, or he’s distracted by something, judging by his voice over the phone. “Where are you?”

“Behind the turn on the first floor, in the,” Kuroo wipes a layer of dust off the door before continuing, “welding room. Why’d the fight die down?”

“Go through the right gates, we drove off that way,” Yaku says and ends the call.

Kuroo crosses the echoing and now empty building in quick steps, feeling just as echoing and empty himself — his mind’s completely blank, if you don’t count the thoughts about Tsukishima’s tongue in his mouth and the biting, nagging irritation at the kid getting away with it again.

“I’ll catch you,” Kuroo thinks, walking through the rusted metal doors onto an overgrown grassy lot. Now both of their cars are standing there, idling. Yaku’s smoking, leaning against the hood.

“There he is,” Konoha drawls, noticing him.

“Had a tête-à-tête.” Kuroo puts his good hand on his hip and concentrates on the cigarette in Yaku’s fingers.

For the first time in seven years, he genuinely wants to smoke again.

“With whom?” Yaku demands.

Kuroo decides it’s useless to hide it, so he shrugs carelessly. “With Glasses.”

Yaku groans, throwing his head back. “Are you fucking gone on him or something, Jesus Christ!”

You’re crazy, Kuroo thinks.

Of course not, Kuroo thinks.

Definitely not, Kuroo thinks.

Maybe a little.

“I needed some closure!”

“Did you kill him?” Bokuto asks, throwing his ragged bangs back. His antigravity hairstyle’s almost completely flattened, and now his hair is hanging in his face and covering his eyes.

Kuroo shakes his head, sweeping his own mess off his eyes.

“FBC?” his friend asks carefully.

“No.” Kuroo pretends to be horrified, and is almost not lying. “He ran off.”

After I wasted ten minutes on devouring him with my eyes and explaining all of my dissatisfaction like a disappointed ex-girlfriend, instead of shooting, Kuroo thinks, and scratches his neck. Maybe he doesn’t just want to shoot Tsukishima.

“Why were they even here?” he asks. “And by the way, where’s Tendou and Ushijima and their hangers-on?”

“Drove off. Tendou had grenades, Konoha had grenades, we yelled at each other and decided to take a break before we all died.” Yaku waves a hand. “And yeah, you’re right, we think the Americans started shooting.”

“Why did they need that?”

Yaku pulls the suitcase with the sacred tablets out of the backseat with one hand, Kai grabs the other side and helps him open it.

“To steal the plates, I assume.”

Kuroo cackles, clutching his side.

The suitcase is filled with hundreds of pictures of sacred tablets — real, Old Testament ones, like the kind Moses nabbed from Mount Sinai for his Israelites.

What jokers. What comedians.

Definitely Sugawara’s idea — you don’t have to go far to find that out.

“Well really,” Yaku chuckles, closing the suitcase. “Both sets of sacred tablets are equally useless. I wonder what’ll happen when our American friends find that out?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man that was a lot. next one's shorter tho  
> major Translator Note for this chapter is the original text mentioned a specific type of "bamboo-based indonesian alcohol" that I am 100% certain some russian person made up bc I could only find evidence of its existence on 3 russian-language sites that all linked back to each other so I looked up other indonesian alcoholic drinks and jamie told me to go w/the one served in a bamboo cup  
> edit to add: I mistranslated a phrase bc I was unaware of Russian slang for getting extremely drunk and now I'm Embarrassed Forever but OP pointed it out to me and I fixed it so its fine  
> also if you wanna follow along w/my translation process as it happens I have a [ twitter thread](https://twitter.com/mashazart/status/1149876192419491840?s=20) about the experience


	14. Chapter 14

What happens is this.

They were supposed to be in place by five p.m. There’s twenty minutes left, but they’d put Bokuto behind the wheel, so there’s a possibility they simply won’t make it there. Half of Jakarta would cheer.

“Turn right here,” Yaku extinguishes the cigarette against the roof of the car and throws it onto the road.

Black Brabuses — the Church’s work uniform — are currently banned: they’re the main identifying characteristic the Cartel’s dogs could recognize from afar. Saeko said no, you can’t borrow one of our cars, so they had to find something large, fast. Kuroo feels like he arrived in Jakarta not to defend the stereoplates from enemy paws, but to test every car rental service in the city.

“Turn right here” looks like a sundried street on the border of the center and the slums. The layout is typical for the poorer regions, buildings pressed close together like bills in a wad of cash, but all of them have colorful signage and bright facades.

An exit three stoplights later leads to a parking lot in front of a flattened building, containing a diner so American-looking that Kuroo hasn’t even seen one like it in the States— only in movies, really.

“We gonna be here long?” Shirofuku asks, businesslike and detached as she examines her nails.

From the moment they set off a few fireworks in Hamaima Tower, she, according to Bokuto, only goes out reluctantly, and it’s understandable. Kuroo’s just feeling awkward holding them all here for too long, and every single time he has to remind himself that these guys have their own interests in the matter. He believes this less and less with every hour. Bokuto earns a lot from his suicidal profession: enough for a regular person to gape and start counting how many lives they’d have to live to catch up, and enough to pay the fine and fuck off.

“If they don’t start shooting we’ll be done in half an hour.” Yaku sticks the graying edge of his bandage inside the plaster cast.

“I don’t think they’re planning on shooting,” Kai says peaceably.

The parking lot is half-full of cars. Not a bad result for a non-lunch hour of a workday. Negotiating with weapons to back up your arguments in a place like this will attract unnecessary attention. Considering their position in the city, fatally unnecessary.

“Where was your clairvoyance when we sent them a friend request and invited them for a stroll to Washijou’s safe?” Kuroo puts a hand on the door handle, although Bokuto’s just circling the parking lot, trying to find a shady spot on this paved flatland.

“Kuroo,” Kai sighs too reproachfully, like a martial arts master who’s been teaching his student about spiritual balance for five years and still can’t get it to stick.

“Kuroo what? We can’t even be sure now that we’re not walking into a trap.”

Bokuto stops the car in the shadow of a giant sign on the roof of the eatery, bends his massive chest to the steering wheel, peering sideways out of the front window, and turns back to Kuroo. “Nah, I don’t see anyone.” He scratches his nose with a knuckle. “And I didn’t notice anything suspicious on the way here either.”

“There’s always the chance of something suspicious happening inside,” Kuroo tsks.

“Quit panicking.” Yaku opens the door and finishes his comeback when they’re looking at each other over the roof of the family-sized Volvo. “This was all your fault in the first place.”

And nods towards the “this,” meaning Kuroo’s wounded shoulder. It almost doesn’t hurt when it’s still, but aches noticeably if he tries to move the arm.

“Ugh, not again...” Shirofuku rolls her eyes, leans forward to examine her reflection in the side mirror, and fixes her hair.

She turns around, pops a bubble of pink chewing gum, and with that sound pops Kuroo’s patience, but he doesn’t show it.

“This” — he points at the building — “is suspicious. And your Americans” — points in the same direction again — “are also suspicious. When the guys who robbed me call and suggest we meet up so they can sell me back the shit they stole, I usually go somewhere else.”

Speaking of, Kuroo should say hi to Ushijima, who they robbed and then called to suggest they meet up and sell back the shit they stole from him.

“You understand it’s just a pretense,” Kai says softly. “They probably understood they have a forgery on their hands.”

“Yeah, they have that, special analyst of whatever, Sugawara or something. He’s the one looking,” Bokuto starts. “So, bro, chill out,” he says his usually calm phrase without his usual airiness, and that feels a little horrifying.

Kuroo tugs his shirt down, trying to hide his weapon, but the green fabric unequivocally outlines the silhouette of the holster on his hip. Shirofuku throws a large crocodile skin purse over one shoulder. The small guns inside are enough to capture several floors of Hamaima Tower.

“I’m chill.” Kuroo slams the car door shut. “I’m practically Buddha over here, can’t you tell?”

Kai runs a hand over his shaved head and sighs, like, hold on, let me put on a pair of glasses, get a microscope out and observe that more carefully.

“Just don’t start firing at everyone from the doorway, Buddha,” Shirofuku tsks, stepping out of the shadows into the sun and putting on sunglasses.

They’re parked at the back of the building, to reach the main entrance they need to goright. Shirofuku takes a few more steps forward. Her eyes are hidden, but her brows are furrowed unhappily. 

“What’s up?” Yaku asks lowly. He opens a pack of Marlboros to smoke one more before entering, and tries to pull one out with his teeth, but freezes, letting the filter of the half-extracted cigarette fall from his mouth.

Bokuto locks the car, sticks the keys in his pocket and steps to the corner. Stands for a few seconds, rocking back and forth, and then says, “They’re inside already. Sent the light-haired one somewhere.” Frowns a bit, remembering, and then specifies: “Tsukishima.”

After a few seconds they’re all standing on the corner —no less than homegrown spies, peeking out from behind bushes with binoculars at the world’s ills. Tsukishima, an awkward gangly figure in a gleaming white shirt, is urgently retreating from the eatery’s entrance.

“He’s kind of antsy,” Bokuto drawls.

“That’s suspicious, is it not?” Shirofuku scoffs.

“I don’t like this,” Yaku tsks.

Kai is the only one who doesn’t weigh in, but he looks very thoughtful, like he’s summarizing all that’s been said, like, yes, antsy, yes, suspicious, yes, he’s not thrilled about this either. And Kai in these situations is almost never wrong.

“Well then let’s check.” Kuroo grins at the retreating back.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going with your arm?” Yaku growls. A fighting leprechaun who’d beat you up with his cast instead of whacking you on the head with a pot of gold.

“Reconnaissance.” Kuroo tugs his t-shirt down again, as it suddenly pulled up and revealed the gun tucked behind his belt. “My arm is totally fine, look.”

He half-bends his bicep, sincerely hoping the wound won’t open up again. In gratitude for almost a full day of rest the injury does not start bleeding.

“Just go,” Yaku sighs. “But I urge you to—”

“Oh, I’m not gonna bother him!” Kuroo waves him off. 

“Not what I meant.” Yaku tilts his head to one side, folding his arms across his chest. “Don’t kill him.”

Kuroo’s silent for a few seconds, and then grins. “That I can’t promise.” 

Kuroo high-fives Bokuto, makes Yaku promise he’ll call once this whole thing’s over and generally keep him posted, sets his phone to vibrate and leaves.

***

“His guys also don’t know where he ran off to.” Yaku’s voice is being eaten by the terrible phone connection.

“The nice girl is turning into a delinquent?” Kuroo tsks, looking for Tsukishima above the crowd.

The bus is slowly approaching the next stop, the final stop for the next few hours. The road is closed because of that wedding all the radio stations have been buzzing about for the past few days. Kuroo thinks the gods were trying to warn him, but no, he’d plugged his ears and made himself deaf to the prophecies from above. So now he suffers.

Tsukishima’s standing by the furthest door. On the way they make eye contact a few times, and Kuroo’s certain he’s going to try to hide as soon as the bus stops. He’s right. Tsukishima leaps out onto the sidewalk and starts off as fast as possible. He’s stretched out and awkward, with long arms and legs, light-haired amongst a crushing assortment of brunettes — it’s hard for a person like that to get lost amongst the scattered clusters of people walking towards them, but further down the sidewalk the crowds get bigger and bigger. 

“This is very suspicious,” Yaku sighs, moves the phone away from his face to shout at Lev a bit, and then continues, “Bring him back alive.”

Kuroo walks faster. “We’ll see.”

“Kuroo!”

“Shitty reception here, I’ll call you back.” Kuroo turns the phone off without looking and hides it in his pocket.

There’s so many people ahead of him that, in an attempt to avoid a collision with a baby carriage, he almost knocks over the couple walking towards him.

When they reach a right turn, weaving in and out of the crowd turns out to be almost unbearable. When Tsukishima vanishes behind the corner, Kuroo breaks into a run, feeling like a rugby player avoiding the attackers of the enemy team, while behind the corner an unpleasant discovery awaits.

Dozens, hundreds of people — a sweaty mass in bright clothes, with phones in hand, filling the sides of the road. Kuroo dives into this multicolored ocean, gritting his teeth. Sweet perfume reeks from the right, tobacco on the left, a blond head blinks a few meters away and vanishes again.

“Watch where you’re going.” Gray eyes glint reproachfully at him; besides the eyes, Kuroo doesn’t remember anything.

He’s brought by the traffic flow to a fence. Tsukishima keeps getting further away. What’s happening? Where is he going? Kuroo checks his gun. In place. In his chest something primordial is rumbling: not the instinct that made Neanderthals attack animals, but something that forces predators to grab their prey by the throat — and, being chased by that very instinct, he pushes some woman to the side by her shoulders.

In the far corner the crowd starts celebrating — jumping over a melting ice cream on the asphalt, Kuroo sees the wedding procession driving into the street, and then — Tsukishima. Not the back of his head, but his focused and almost frightened expression. Kuroo grins and bites his bottom lip with a canine.

“You know I’ll catch up,” he whispers.

The sun comes out from behind a cloud. Kuroo squints. Everything’s flaring in his eyes now: phones, camera lenses, glasses, the white limousine’s gleaming hood.

The wave of well-wishers breaks against Tsukishima like a rock. He freezes a few meters away. Kuroo can see it now. Just a bit more and, there, his target (his prey) will be right there, and he’ll be able to (bite through his throat) grab his sleeve. He steps sideways between some squealing schoolgirls, pushing aside a guy who almost spills soda all over him, dives under a selfie stick in the arms of a besotted couple photographing themselves in front of the procession, avoids some tourists— and grabs Tsukishima’s shirt. For security he lets go and grabs him again across his waist.

The heat of someone else’s skin, shaking, ragged breath. Tsukishima’s not moving.

“I told you I’d catch up,” Kuroo sighs into his damp neck and smiles.

“I heard no such thing,” Tsukishima hisses in responses and winds up to hit him with his elbow.

He even hits, but the hit is so simple and expected, Kuroo presses harder just in time.

“Think up something better,” he laughs in Tsukishima’s ear.

The crowd claps, girls twitter happily, someone’s jumping nearby, hitting Kuroo with one hand and instantly apologizing.

“Let go of me.” Tsukishima’s voice doesn’t tremble, which is disappointing.

“I don’t know what I want more,” Kuroo says honestly. “To fuck you or to shoot you.”

“Other options?” The kid asks mockingly, and snorts derisively — but shuts up when Kuroo drags his open hand across his waist to his belt.

Look at this sight. And he was so brave earlier.

“I need to bring you back.” A whisper which, to Kuroo, sounds meditative.

His ear is so close. Kuroo could lick it or bite, could grab the lobe with his lips, trace it with his tongue.

Or he could pull his gun out and shoot Tsukishima point-blank through thetemple.

Although in a crowd, a man blowing the brains out of another man would attract attention, just like a man licking another man’s ear.

“Your guys don’t know where you’ve gone,” Kuroo drawls. “They’re worrying, y’know?”

“I’m touched,” Tsukishima answers. “But somehow I can’t believe that they specifically sent you.”

The next thing Kuroo feels his jawbone ringing from pain.

Tsukishima breaks out of his grasp, and the back of his head — the one he used to hit Kuroo in the head with all his strength — quickly vanishes in the crowd.

Kuroo fumbles. What could be worse than to almost win, almost get, almost catch, and not make it.

Kuroo moves, pushing between people using his good arm. It no longer makes a difference who he shoves aside and who gets knocked over. Tsukishima runs ahead, turning back every few steps, sometimes getting lost in the flow, sometimes popping up out of the sea of heads again — and Kuroo chases him as fast as he could, like an animal following the scent of blood.

Until he suddenly loses it. His brain works fast: Kuroo starts looking side to side in search of higher ground, makes himself a path towards some shop’s porch and scales the steps. Just in time to see Tsukishima turn somewhere to the right. Kuroo jumps over the guardrail, almost twists his ankle, but doesn’t stop moving.

Yaku had sent him off with two rules: don’t fuck and don’t kill. Kuroo would’ve broken both. Possibly at the same time.

There’s a few people on the narrow alley with them, but by the next turn the number decreases. He stretches his neck up and then jumps up to see Tsukishima vanish behind a corner. The crowd thins out. His pulse pounds in his ears. Kuroo’s breathing hard. More from impatience than exertion.

“Why are you running?” He laughs outright. “I thought we had something special!”

A thought forms in his head that, possibly, he’d already said something along those lines: about five days ago, when Tsukishima Kei was either stretching his lips into a mocking smirk, or sanctimoniously turning away. When Kuroo wanted to kiss him and annoy him to death. When “something special” sounded like a joke about his rejections, and not about Kuroo’s attempts to kill him.

“I thought you had feelings for me!” And Kuroo’s own laughter sounds cruel, to him.

One more turn. This street is longer. Here he could stop, aim and send a bullet right into Tsukishima’s leg, and then slowly walk up to him and have a heart-to-heart.

Something like “You know, it’s bad to run away and not tell your bosses where you’re going”, or “You know, I was really fucking hurt when you left me to die, although I was ready to flatten myself into a pancake jumping off a skyscraper for you”, or “You know, it’s time to pick the next joint I’m going to put a hole in,” or “You know, I want to fuck you right here and now.”

But Kuroo decides to just press harder. Tsukishima’s not an athlete. He’s skinny as a pole, bones jutting out of his skin, almost no muscle. How did he even get into government service?

Kuroo jumps over a knocked over garbage can.

There’s only a few meters between them now. It really wouldn’t be any kind of challenge to catch up to Tsukishima. He doesn’t even need to do a final sprint and knock him to the ground, although Kuroo wouldn’t be against it.

“Hold still!” He barks, grabbing Tsukishima’s arm and pulling it towards himself. “You have such a charming habit of constantly running away from me.”

Tsukishima turns around and hits him on the wrist. Staggers backwards, almost turns back around to keep running, but Kuroo pushes his shoulder to the wall and grabs his shirt.

“Just like our last meeting.”

The fabric is damp. Tsukishima’s eyes are round, his cheeks red, and his lips look dry; he’s breathing rapidly. The hot air reaches Kuroo’s face.

“Where’d you run off to like that?” He asks gently. “Tell me.”

“You think it’s your business?”

Tsukishima presses his lips into a thin line, squints angrily and grabs Kuroo’s wrist tight. It doesn’t even hurt.

“Be more careful with people who’d be happy to shoot you,” Kuroo says shortly.

“Oh, but I thought you  _ liked _ me.” Tsukishima raises an eyebrow with an expression of “How sad!” and makes an ugly expression — like, what could have happened to cause such a change of heart.

Kuroo shakes him forcefully — hard enough to hit Tsukishima’s head against the brick wall — and smiles at him like he’s saying “Yes, very funny, what a great joke, bastard.”

Not even a little bit fucking funny, you son of a bitch.

“That’s how it was,” Kuroo drawls, pushing the anger down as far as possible. “And then some other things happened between us. But we’ve already talked about it and come to the conclusion that you’re not even a little bit sorry.”

Judging by Tsukishima’s face, by the fallen smirk and the wrinkles around his eyes, he wants to say something else, but his garbage mouth still spits out, “I’m still not sorry.” He holds a pause and just asks, “Are you going to keep pressing me to this wall?”

“I could fuck you against this wall,” Kuroo snorts.

Tsukishima’s brown eyes widen in surprise, and then squint suspiciously: “But you don’t like me anymore.”

“I’d fuck you, and then shoot you.” Kuroo makes an important clarification.

His own thought about “maybe at the same time” creeps into his head again, at the worst possible moment, and his imagination shoves vivid images of how Tsukishima, backed into a corner, slides his tongue around the opening of his gun, puts his mouth around it, and looks into Kuroo’s eyes.

Kuroo tries to chase this scene out of his head, but:

“I don’t think you could bring yourself to do that.” But Tsukishima isn’t helping with that.

What are you even saying.

Kuroo presses his mouth into Tsukishima’s smiling mouth, and Tsukishima moans, throwing his head back against the wall. He doesn’t push back, he puts his arms around Kuroo’s neck and pulls towards himself as hard as possible. Kuroo has to let go of his shirt to press closer, and he doesn’t know how to dull his reflexes — the unconscious, less-talking-more-action mechanic that could make a person lose all reason. Kuroo puts a hand on Tsukishima’s cheek, outlining his cheekbone with one thumb, lifting his chin up, to break the kiss, alas, trying to think with his head: fucking each other in a backalley is a terrible idea. Any idea that doesn’t include “grab this destructive cat by the scruff of his neck and take him to the cleaners” is terrible.

Tsukishima watches the frenzied movement with wild eyes, but raises his eyebrows in a deliberately sarcastic way — showing off. Tracing Kuroo’s shoulders with his hands and slowly taking them down to his elbows, slipping under his arms and outlining his ribs, staring — that’s flattering — like he wants a continuation. Kuroo sends everything he’s thinking about to hell, either internally or out loud, and kisses like he wants to devour Tsukishima whole. Bites his lips and his tongue, drags his nose along Tsukishima’s cheek, sucks on the skin above his pulse point, licks his neck. Tsukishima slides his hands along Kuroo’s shoulderblades, pressing on his spinal cord...

And Kuroo manages to jump back in time, right before the muzzle of his own gun presses into his stomach.

“You really are a bastard.” He’s laughing not nervously, but close to it, while Tsukishima aims at him, flicking the safety off and straightening his glasses — similar to the ones he had earlier, but different.

“That’s too vulgar.” He licks his lips, wet from Kuroo’s mouth, smooths out his shirt, wrinkled by Kuroo, and does not lower the gun, also stolen from Kuroo.

“I have no words,” he hisses, because there really is nothing to say here.

Tsukishima goes sideways, slowly, not taking his eyes off Kuroo, like he’s thinking that Kuroo could do something at any moment. Which, he’s right, generally.

“Go back, or I shoot.” Tsukishima nods in the direction they came from.

“Oh yeah, like you could,” Kuroo spits mockingly, indicating his own wounded shoulder with his chin.

“Don’t take it personally.”

“I’ll blow your brains out next time.”

“You’ll try,” Tsukishima corrects him, and then nods. “Yes, I believe you.”

He walks forward, still facing Kuroo, Kuroo obediently steps backwards. They head toward opposite ends of the street, and Tsukishima takes off without another word.

“God, fuck, damn,” Kuroo grits out and reaches for his phone in his pocket. Yaku picks up after three rings. “I let the kid get away.”

Again.

“Well that’s not great,” Yaku answers. “Head back, we need to discuss something.”

***

“You’re all so gloomy-looking,” says the even gloomier-looking Kuroo instead of a greeting, squeezing himself between the table and his friend’s knees onto a red couch, upholstered with shabby fake leather.

“God, be more careful,” Yaku growls, as if to confirm that Kuroo stepped specifically on his foot.

The Americans are staring at him from the far side of the table: their leader, her deputy, the ginger kid with an injured limb and Freckles. Almost a full set, minus the little blondie.

“Come on, gorgeous, scoot over.” Despite the “gorgeous,” Kuroo is referring to Shirofuku.

Instead of Shirofuku, who’s sitting on the edge of the little couch, Bokuto’s the one who moves, pulling Kai and Yaku along with him.

“Well, how’d it go?” Bokuto asks, like a true friend, totally ignoring how Kuroo’s grabbing french fries from his plate and shoving them in his mouth, pulling the laminated menu towards himself. 

Shirofuku’s observing the whole proceedings with one eye, digging a long spoon into an ice cream cup. Ginger kid’s loudly slurping soda out of a tall glass, everyone else is as serious as if they’re at the Big8 summit, but stealing Bokuto’s food just made Kuroo hungrier.

“What’s up?” He quirks an eyebrow, examining the attractively photographed burgers on the menu, glances at the unreadable face of their girl boss, turns his head and looks at his guys. “You didn’t figure out where the kid was going?”

Kuroo gives himself the highest score for impassiveness, but in vain. Yaku’s watching him with suspicion, but stays silent. Either he got surgery on the part of his brain responsible for tolerating others’ bullshit while Kuroo was gone, or something else is up. Before Kuroo steps in, he examines his reflection in the side window of some green Renault and tries to get himself in order, but he’s sure it’s obvious that in the last half hour he’d almost broken both of Yaku’s rules for him. His lips feel strange from someone else’s dried spit. Kuroo licks them and looks up again.

“We don’t know,” Shimizu emphasizes. One of her plans is crashing and burning, and Kuroo feels absolutely zero sympathy for her.

He turns to the waitress. “I’d like this thing with the turkey” — he points — “but with extra pepper. And yeah,” he says to Shimizu, “I’d run away from management like this too.”

“Kuroo.” Yaku wants to kick him, but judging by the fuss, kicks Bokuto instead, and a scuffle breaks out.

“I don’t think this is relevant to the topic of our conversation today,” the agent with a beauty mark squints.

Kuroo doesn’t think that either. It just slipped out on its own. He smiles impassively, props his chin up on his hands, while inside he’s freaking out such that it’s getting harder and harder to keep himself in check. Fucking Americans with their assignments, fucking senior agents with their stupid orders, fucking bullets lodged in shoulders, fucking Tsukishima Kei.

God, how’d he get stuck in that gutter — Kuroo focuses his attention on the white ruffles of the waitresses’ aprons to avoid remembering it.

That entirely sloppy ki— Kuroo looks at the half-empty salt shakers in the middle of the table.

“Did Tsukishima say anything?”

These imaginary images of his mouth and g— Kuroo leans back against the soft couch, and the leatherette creaks under him.

“Nope.” His not actually hypocritical mouth said many things, but nothing that should be related at this meeting.

Kuroo will think about it later. Kuroo will jack off to it tonight. Thank god he didn’t get shot in his right arm.

“Did y’all learn something?” he asks.

“Nothing good,” Yaku answers immediately.

“Wait, we need fresh eyes.” The cutesy senior agent smiles softly. “Look...”

“Judging by the behavior of the Cartel, they weren’t responsible for the fakes.” That’s Yaku. Yaku’s voice could send all the carnivals of Rio into a state of depression.

“Okay.” Kuroo nods encouragingly. “We know that. Next?”

“The next suspects were us.” The senior agent puts his elbows on the table.

“But we didn’t do it,” the little ginger one jumps in.

“The plates were with a Japanese gang for some time,” says Shimizu.

***

_ “Here... found ‘em,” says Yamaguchi. _

_ Tsukishima bends over his shoulder, scans the lines of text on the screen and loudly — surprising for his quiet voice — calls, “Agent Sugawara! You were right!” _

_ “I’m right about a lot of things,” Sugawara says thoughtfully, walking into the room without getting distracted from the papers in his hands. “What is it this time?” _

_ “The Japanese gang from Bojong.” Tsukishima turns towards him. Sugawara looks up. “We found them.” _

_ *** _

_ “How did you find out where we were?” the ringleader asks gruffly, not taking his eyes or gun away from Sugawara. Sugawara just smiles, slowly and deliberately putting his hands in the air. He’s unarmed. _

_ The place the Japanese have taken over was strategically prudent, if you take into account the balance of power in Jakarta and the fact that they were now under the wing of the Cartel: in one of the most densely-populated regions of the city. If you wanted to find them, you’d have to search for a very long time. _

_ Sugawara needed two days and about fifteen minutes. _

_ “Leave,” the leader of the Bojong group suggests almost peacefully. “We don’t need any trouble with you, whoever you might be.” _

_ Ah, Sugawara thinks, I see. So they’re out of the loop. _

_ And steps right in front of the gun. _

_ “Put the weapon down,” he says politely but insistently. “Let’s just chat... Lieutenant Sawamura.” _

_ *** _

_ “Your behavior in the hotel seemed strange to me for street gang fighters,” Sugawara admits honestly, leaning back on the couch. They’d climbed up to the apartment above the garage, and now Sawamura stands, leaning against the armchair opposite. “Your setup seemed more military than anything. And my analysts were very confused that the convicted felon Akihiko Kunio looked so much like the Tokyo Police Department’s junior lieutenant, Nishinoya Yuu.” He sighs. “After that finding officers Kageyama Tobio and Azumane Asahi was not at all difficult. Not to mention you and your awards, Sawamura-san.”  _

_ “The Tokyo department didn’t tell us you’d requested information about our officers.” Sawamura frowns, crossing his powerful arms over his chest. “Our operation was supposed to be secret.” _

_ “Ours too. I think that’s why your superiors came directly at us.” Sugawara makes eye contact with the lieutenant. “I already said we are only interested in protecting our currency. The stereoplates of Ukai Ikkei only print dollars, not yen. What is your goal in Jakarta, Sawamura-san?” _

_ “That’s confidential information,” he snaps. _

_ Sugawara smiles and raises an eyebrow. “Well, I thought we’d already shown our cards to each other. I’m not going to blow your cover, so I came here alone, instead of bringing the whole team down on you.” He sighs. “Listen, Lieutenant.... We ended up in a complicated situation, especially when you” — his expression grows sterner— “broke into our suite and, taking an American agent hostage, stole the stereoplates.” _

_ “After you stole them from the Triad.” _

_ “The Triad is a local problem, and not one of American-Japanese relations,” Sugawara points out. Sawamura frowns harder. “Look, I don’t understand why you’re so hostile towards us. If you just needed the plates you would’ve already left the country with them. But you gave them to the Cartel.” _

_ Sugawara spreads his arms out in an imploring gesture. “Our goal is to prevent the printing of counterfeit dollars. We want to extract the plates from the market and ideally find Ukai Ikkei.” _

_ He asks. “And you?” _

_ Sawamura holds his gaze for a few seconds, expression unchanging. And then looks away, sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. Sugawara understands he won. “We’re here because of Washijou Tanji.” _

_ “The Cartel?” _

_ “Washijou,” Sawamura emphasizes. “And his expansions beyond Indonesian borders.” _

_ “You intend to arrest him?” _

_ “He threatens the safety of our country,” Sawamura says with authority. “And our leadership refuses to let that happen.” _

_ Sugawara’s pose is still relaxed, but his face grows serious. “Explain yourself, Lieutenant.” _

_ Sawamura looks at him for a while. His gaze is tense, weighted, his eyes are almost black. Sugawara knows this type of agent: unlike him, acting according to the situation and almost intuitively, these like to plan everything ahead before taking a single step. The loss of so much money under his responsibility has got to have hit him hard. These kinds of people don’t forgive their mistakes. _

_ These kinds of people aren’t made for Jakarta, Sugawara thinks. _

_ “At the start of 2014 our domestic intelligence pinpointed the activity of several yakuza clans in the south of the country. According to their information, the balance of power within the domestic narcotics and arms markets of Japan was shifting: several important suppliers left the stage, and new ones replaced them. In just two years they picked up all of the incoming heroin and cocaine traffic and started controlling maritime contraband coming in from Latin America. And all of them,” he sighs heavily, “are the Sunrise Cartel’s suppliers.” _

_ “So the Cartel started expanding into Japan,” Sugawara says knowingly. “And forcefully, too. At that rate, if he sets up a stronghold on the islands, in about five years the Cartel will be controlling a significant portion of your domestic market.” _

_ “We have our own system of working with criminals. But the Sunrise Cartel is something else. The southern part of the country could get sucked into clan wars, if he gains a significant foothold in the arms market and starts conquering territory. And on top of all that, before coming over to Indonesia, Washijou Tanji started in Japan. _

_ “And your government decided—” _

_ “Yes.” Sawamura nods. “They sent us here. We have to either work with the policemen in Jakarta who haven’t been bought by the Cartel — which turned out to be impossible — help them arrest Washijou, or demand extradition, or...” he trails off meaningfully. And then continues. “We were very lucky that Ukai showed up and sent his plates into the market. First, the Cartel started acting often and carelessly, and second, we got a chance to break in. They don’t recruit newcomers often, but for ethnic Japanese who bring tangible skills to the table, especially from a small criminal gang, there’s a chance to melt into the conglomerate. We gift-wrapped the stereoplates for them, and they accepted us. _

_ He bends his head slightly, demonstrating either a plea or respect, and the resulting gesture ends up practically threatening. “Don’t get in our way.” _

_ *** _

_ “That’s what he told me.” Sugawara rubs his eyes with his hands. Shimizu passes him a towel — yet another hotel suite without air conditioning. How many times have they switched hotels over the last few days? “And I understand the first part of the plan — get in good with the Cartel. Collect all the compromising material you want... But what are they planning on doing later? He didn’t say anything when I asked.” _

_ “At minimum they need Washijou to end up on the territory of the Japanese Embassy,” Shimiu throws out. “Only then they could accuse him of crimes. Japan and Indonesia don’t have an extradition agreement. _

_ “And to get Washijou on Embassy territory, he needs to be delivered there, most likely against his will. And how can five officers do that when Washijou’s always surrounded by a security detail, plus Tendou Satori and Ushijima Wakatoshi?” _

_ “Can’t imagine,” Shimizu answers honestly, rubbing her temples with her fingers. “Did they say anything else?” _

_ “I requested cooperation. Explained about the Hamaima Tower operation and said we could help each other. He declined to join forces — too much risk for their cover, but promised to share any important information. I hope that helps us somehow.” _

_ “All alliances are useful,” says Shimizu, “if you know how to use them.” _

_ And she turns out to be right. _

_ Because just two days later Sugawara’s phone gets a text. “The Church of Lascano called Ushijima Wakatoshi out for a conversation. They’re taking us with them. Friday, six, abandoned automobile factory in the southwest of the city.” _

_ And a day later, when Sugawara realizes the plates were fake, Sawamura assures him that they didn’t switch anything or touch anything — and the Service believes him. So they were swapped at a different stage of the journey. _

_ And Shimizu contacts the Church. _

_ *** _

“But it wasn’t your work either,” the cuter agent finishes. “We have sources.”

Kuroo honestly tries to catch the gist of the story. The middle’s in his hands, but it’s unclear where it’s headed, because what’s next is the obvious.

“Then we thought it was the Triad.” Bokuto scratches his neck. “But no dice.”

Yaku repeats, more for the Americans than Kuroo. “Our sources” — no amount of effort could make Kuroo call Daishou “our sources” but okay — “confirmed that this wasn’t a Chinese forgery.”

Kuroo can’t resist laughing into his fist — Jesus, Yaku, “Chinese forgery?” what an interesting game of meanings.

“So?” Kuroo stares at the door to the kitchen his food still hasn’t been brought out yet. “That’s the end of the list of big fish. So someone lied to us.”

“Or...” Shimizu props her chin up on her fist and meaningfully stares, for some reason, directly at Kuroo.

Joke’s on her though, because Kuroo doesn’t have a clue what’s going on here.

“It has to have been someone who’s spent enough time with the stereoplates to switch the real deal for the fake.”

“There aren’t any.” Sugawara throws up his hands. “Either they’ve got a traitor” — he gestures at the Church representatives — “Or the Japanese agents, or the Triad and Cartel, with their level of security...”

“Or us,” Shimizu finishes carefully.

“Or us... But we didn’t have anyone who could have...” and here Sugawara’s tone changes. And now he’s staring at Kuroo too.

“What?” Kuroo blurts out, feeling the tension build in the air. “What is it?!”

“The only person who’s spent several hours alone with the stereoplates on the other side of town,” Shimizu says, “is...”

_ Getting here such that neither the Church people or the Cartel’s runners followed him was a challenge in itself: he’s not used to this pace of work, where you could get shot by a weirdo from around the corner at any moment. And judging by the statistics, the whole city’s full of weirdos. _

_ “I followed all the directions,” he drones in a bureaucrat’s voice, fixing his glasses. “And the directions clearly stated that opening the suitcase again is only allowed in fully secure conditions, sir.” _

_ “I did say I conducted the preliminary inspection of the contents. The plates are inside.” _

_ He guessed again: every participant in this operation was yanked off the nearest base to Indonesia as a matter of urgency. _

_ “...And I studied it in college, but didn’t need it. Haven’t left the States for work.” _

_ They were never super close in the Academy, though they were there at the same time. But Tsukishima didn’t really talk to most people there, _

_ “I looked through your file. Miami, September 27th, Libra, problems with the lie detector upon admission to the Service...” _

_ His coldly calculating, clinically discarding unnecessary information brain tells him: even if we take into account your task, even if we operate according to your instructions, you’ve known Yachi for almost three years... _

_ His brain tells him: and even if this is all ending soon, can you possibly leave her here?... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : )  
> translator's note for this time: the flashbacks at the end of this chapter were mostly from earlier in the fic, so I went back and rephrased a sentence or two to flow better haha


	15. Chapter 15

Storage locker number 583. Fifth block, third horizontal row, eighteenth locker from the left.

Tsukishima inputs the four-digit code, turns the key — Soekarno-Hatta is at maximum security. The electric lock beeps approvingly, the door clicks open.

Tsukishima retrieves the bag from the depths. The most basic Adidas duffel: not too large, as though carrying athletic gear, black-and-white, with long straps. Not heavy, but weighty. Naturally, since it contains thirty four metal plates inside.

The airport in front of him — an evening edition and, like all airports at any time of day, lively — doesn’t notice him. No sirens go off, no security guards run towards him, no police cars drive up, and nobody chases him with guns.

Tsukishima exhales nervously, pulls his baseball cap down even lower, fixes the straps of the bag on his shoulder and moves in the direction of the terminal he came from. He doesn’t know why he’s subconsciously waiting for something to go wrong. Or, he knows, but doesn’t like it. Because not all of his nerves can handle what’s been happening in Jakarta this past week.

He doesn’t like worrying. He doesn’t like waiting for bullets in his back. He doesn’t like being in constant danger. In general, he doesn’t like anything in Jakarta.

Not a very successful weekend getaway.

The people around — foreigners, locals, arrivals, departures, groups of tourists, airport personnel, movers, employees of the duty-free shop and local cafes — swallow him. Who’s going to pay any attention to a tall Asian guy in jeans and a grey windbreaker with a sports bag and baseball cap covered by a hoodie? Yeah, his face is covered in bruises, his lips are split, but the jacket zipped up to this chin should help hide at least something.

He even took his glasses off. He had to get his contacts out from his wallet, even though he’s always hated them and only carried them in case of emergencies. The less noticeable, the better.

Judging by how easily Kuroo tracked him a few hours ago, he sticks out too much. Or maybe Kuroo’s just that good of a hunter. Or maybe his frantic desire to kill Tsukishima made him into a hunter.

Remembering the chase through the wedding party, Tsukishima jolts and speeds up. He doesn’t even try to force himself to think of something else: he does, and then again, and then a few more times. His usual method of “if you ignore it it doesn’t exist” clearly doesn’t work in this situation. With this person. In this town.

And speaking of things that piss him off here, he should start with himself. He’s pissed off with himself to the point of wanting to deck himself in his own face. And that’s considering that Tsukishima’s generally wary of physical confrontation.

Who even asked him to volunteer for the operation in Hamaima Tower?

How did he even get sucked into this idiotic provocation and let himself get dragged onto the seventieth floor, full of people with weapons? How could he be such a shortsighted moron?

Back then he didn’t have any time to think about it, the most important thing was to run faster and not catch a bullet in the dark. Now, looking back, he doesn’t understand. He remembers dark mocking eyes, remembers a condescending smirk, remembers playful carelessness, remembers the flickering desire inside himself to show off and prove it. And these memories make him feel ashamed.

What was he, someone who’s only ever shot training weapons, trying to prove? To whom? Why? He got himself into a totally useless and lethally dangerous game — since he’d known that even if Washijou’s safe had contained stereoplates, there’s no way they could’ve been real.

Because the real ones are in the duffel hanging off his shoulders.

“Coffee! Two coffees for the price of one!” A kid holding flyers walks by the cafe along the right wall of the massive terminal. He shoves a glossy sheet at Tsukishima, who takes it automatically, and then after a moment crumbles the stiff paper in his fist.

The worst part is, he knows the answers perfectly well — what, to whom, and even why.

And his nature — logical, rational, used to moving along the optimal trajectory from point A to point B — is scared shitless of these zigzags.

And Kuroo Tetsurou scares him shitless.

“Excuse me,” Tsukishima mumbles, almost bumping into someone. 

And he wouldn’t be embarrassed if this fear was only due to a desire to end Kuroo. Tsukishima never planned to leave the world of the living this early and, most importantly, here, in this crazy town. The idea of being shot wasn’t very attractive to him, but the fact that Kuroo kept finding him over and over, beating him up and pointing a gun at him, also tickled his nerves. Pushed him into an adrenaline-induced euphoria. His heart would get stuck somewhere in his throat, everything inside him pulled into a tight coil. And he’d have to act on pure instinct, and Tsukishima’s not used to that.

When Kuroo was breathing onto the back of his neck, thinking was impossible. And those were the only moments in Tsukishima’s life when he wasn’t thinking — only feeling, sensing and acting. Kuroo forced him to, throwing all of his thoughts right out of his head. And that was exactly what scared him.

In this crazy town he, too, is starting to go crazy.

***

Tsukishima reluctantly returns to the list of reasons why he genuinely hates Jakarta. And immediately after Kuroo Tetsurou are the shootouts.

That’s exactly what Tsukishima, fumbling, is thinking about, practically sliding along the slippery floor towards the exit and knocking people over along the way. Bullets and Chinese curse words followed him.

Of course, he doesn’t understand a word of Chinese, but he’s certain they’re curses. What else would you shout at a man who’d just whacked you on the head with a twenty-pound bag full of metal, headbutted your nose and started running?

The next thing Tsukishima considers is, how’d they get weapons into the airport?

“Security, Security, terminal four, emergency situation! Security! Terminal four! Everyone remain calm!” A feminine voice announces in Indonesian.

“Fucking Triad,” Tsukishima mutters through gritted teeth, stumbling against someone’s suitcase. Most likely these are the Triad’s people.

But how did they find out where he is, who he is and why he specifically needs a few more holes in his body?

Someone shouts, and people scatter. Tsukishima can’t turn around mid-run, but he’s certain that from all sides the security forces of this airport are heading towards him.

New question: how does he get out of here alive?

A bullet whistles past his face and lodges in the shoulder of some unfortunate bystander; Tsukishima doesn’t have time to pity him. He’d rather someone pity Tsukishima himself.

Ahead of him looms the terminal exit, but that’s hopeless. Any idiot could guess that they’d already sent all the nearest guards there.

A bullet hits the bag.

“Fuck!” Watch where you’re firing, morons! “Fuck, fuck!”

Tsukishima swerves right.

He’d had to surrender the gun he’d stolen from Kuroo at the entrance to the airport. Tsukishima was anxious and didn’t want to get stopped for something stupid. Now he regrets it.

There’s a whole wall of security guards in dark blue uniforms ahead of him now, all armed. The Triad members are catching up, and only the insane trajectory of Tsukishima’s running and the people and luggage carts en route are preventing Tsukishima from being sent to live with his great-grandfathers.

Attacking from the front is a doomed strategy. He can’t go back. Right, left — same deal. So now what?

Yet another bullet flies within a millimeter of him, and there’s a few meters more to the exit.

“You, bastard!” Someone shouts behind him in heavily-accented English.

He’s out of time to think, and Tsukishima does the first thing that comes to mind. He dives into the luggage scanning conveyor belt. The belt’s not working so he jumps through and out the other side, dragging the bag behind him. At that moment the Triad finally reaches the exit, and the firefight starts up with renewed vigor. 

Tsukishima falls out of the x-ray, one of the guards jumps in front of him and gets a bag to the face. With a wide leap Tsukishima ends up at the doors, barely dodging stray bullets.

He runs out into the street. Knowing everyone’s going to go after him again soon, but the shootout gives him the smallest window of movement.

Tsukishima sees his savior in the form of a taxi slowly driving away. Last burst of speed, and he runs towards the car as fast as he can.

“City center! Fast!” he barks, slamming the door.

The taxi driver turns around, dumbfounded, but Tsukishima doesn’t let him recover and just points forward. “Faster! I’ll pay extra! Three hundred dollars! Faster!”

The driver understands the language of money instantly, and so he drives.

***

He gets out in the center. The region, according to the driver, is called Tanah-Abang, but it’s not like that says anything to Tsukishima. He gets out of the car, counts out green and orange rupiahs, then gives up and pays in dollars — it’s easier. The satisfied taxi driver peels away, and Tsukishima’s left alone in the middle of the city at night.

He walks through several districts, weaving through alleyways and buildings, and then stops and leans against the brick siding of some house on the corner of a wide, noisy street. Only then does he let himself take a breath.

“I survived,” Tsukishima mumbles. He wants to rub his eyes, but he remembers in time that he’s wearing contacts and just blindly touches the skin around them instead. “And escaped.”

Not even after Hamaima Tower did he feel this much relief. After Hamaima Tower he couldn’t afford relief in general: a tense situation, grim management, the massacre of the Church and the horribly gnawing sense of guilt — all of it mixed into a single dark lump.

“Enough already,” he grumbles at himself out loud, and then reaches his fingers into his hair and pulls to the point of pain.

Gathering his thoughts, Tsukishima straightens the bag on his shoulder and steps out into the lively road.

First he decides to find a place to eat. The last time he’d eaten normally was yesterday, when he and the Service were discussing the upcoming meeting with the Church. Now, when the adrenaline’s faded, his empty stomach painfully reminds him of its existence. So Tsukishima decides to sit down in some calm area, think and decide what to do next.

Because he has no idea.

Judging by the calls and messages on his work phone — which he’d dumped before entering the airport — the Service isn’t waiting for him with open arms. Or, they are, but not because they want to work with him. Hinata probably wants to shoot him through something.

“...Fried chicken! Sale on fried chicken!...”

Tsukishima, without thinking, turns left towards the wide automatic doors, and steps around someone’s parked motorcycles.

He doesn’t regret it — this was expected. This end was awaiting them sooner or later, with Jakarta or without her. The disappointed expression of Agent Sugawara in his imagination didn’t make him sad but actually cheered him up. Getting on a plane at Millard Airport, he’d already known he’dhave to say goodbye to the Service.

The hall is crowded, the tables packed with mostly locals. Tsukishima sits at a table facing the entrance, just in case. The menu is in Indonesian, with no pictures, so he orients himself based on the words “meat”, “pepper”, and “vegetables.” He’s suddenly craving some well-cooked steak, but there’s only strange spicy food here. Tsukishima calls over a waitress — a small Indonesian girl in short shorts — and points at a random item on the menu.

Step one should’ve been to find a phone, buy a local SIM card and call America to report that he has the plates. And here’s where the problems start.

The only thing that went according to plan was switching the real stereoplates for fake ones with different serial numbers. Tsukishima definitely didn’t expect them to just fall into his hands like they did. But he was unfortunate enough to get caught up in the Cartel and Church’s throwdown in the port — although getting the plates first was lucky. He even had enough time to go to Soekarno-Hatta, trade the contents of the bag and briefcase and leave the first in a storage locker. Ideal, practically textbook.

Tsukishima had been counting that the Service, like they’d planned, would leave Indonesia the same day they got the stereoplates. This wouldn’t have allowed Sugawara to conduct a detailed inspection, but would have allowed Tsukishima to grab his bag from the airport and take the real plates out of the country without being noticed. He’d been expecting that if the American leaders told Indonesia they’d found production of American dollars on Indonesian territory, special agents would be able to leave without getting their luggage checked.

But Tsukishima did not expect to run into undercover Japanese intelligence agents using the plates to infiltrate the Cartel. And he didn’t expect to participate in deadly shenanigans like breaking into the headquarters of the largest organized crime unit in the country, and that Sugawara would get the stereoplates again, and that he’d then suddenly decide to check them and discover the forgery.

It was at that moment that Tsukishima realized he had nothing else left to do with the Service. Sooner or later they’ll realize who exactly had the opportunity to switch the plates.

And he ran off.

On the way, of course, he’s almost caught by Kuroo, but he manages to slip away. Everything squeezes inside just at that memory.

And well, now Tsukishima’s sitting in an Indonesian eatery in the center of town, scarfing down noodles with meat and not knowing what to do. How to get out of Jakarta alive and holding the stereoplates?

This question tortures Tsukishima the entire time he eats. Who even decided to send him here? Does he look like the kind of guy who likes spending time with cutthroats?

When he steps outside, it’s almost totally dark, there’s even more people out, and he still hasn’t found a plan. Tsukishima almost knocks over a black bike by the door and takes a few steps through the parking lot before it happens.

He has no plan, but fate, evidently, decides to come up with something to entertain him anyway.

There’s two of them, and they’re sitting on the hood of a parked car. One with dyed pinkish hair, with a face glowing blue from the reflection of his cellphone, the other, pale, curly-haired, flicking a pocket-knife open and closed with a light, casual movement. Tsukishima watches this for a few seconds, and then sharply turns on his heels and, lowering his baseball cap, plans to walk away, but then the second guy elbows the first in his ribs.

“Oh.” The guy smiles for a second out of form, and quickly grows serious. “Tsukishima Kei.”

This is a bad sign. This is definitely a bad sign. Tsukishima just turns away and walks forward, trying to show them that they’re mistaken.

“You’re so impolite,” the guy drawls after him. And then quieter: “Mattsun, couldn’t you...”

Tsukishima breaks into a run. The bag with the plates is dragging his shoulder to the ground, so he carries it in his arms and runs. He doesn’t even manage to cross half the parking lot before someone grabs his windbreaker.

“Kind of slow,” says the one who’s probably Mattsun.

Tsukishima turns around, planning to hit him in the arm, but nearly greets a knife with his nose.

“You’re so fast, I’m shocked.” The other smiles lazily, and then gets off the hood, swings the back door open and makes an inviting gesture with his arm.

Tsukishima tries to force his brain to work, but his head is full of panicky thoughts. He needs a plan. Not necessarily a “clever” plan, just, any. Because getting into a car with threatening strangers is the last thing he’d wanted right about now.

Mattsun folds Tsukishima’s left arm back and drags the bag off his right. Tsukishima digs his heels into the asphalt, but the tip of the knife poking his ribs is a strong argument.

“What do you want?” he asks. The brim of his cap obscures his vision, and he has to lift his head up to see them properly.

“What do we want, Makki?” Tsukishima hears behind his back, with a hint of a laugh.

“Good question, Mattsun.” Makki scratches his chin with one hand, resting his elbow on the frame of the open door. “I’d like my landlord to finally fix my bathroom, I’m sick of showering at my neighbor’s. What do you want?”

“I dunno. Ski resort vacation?”

Tsukishima’s shoved into the back seat and, before he can look around and decide whether or not he could slide out of the other door, Makki sits down next to him. Tsukishima’s almost one hundred percent sure that Makki’s some kind of friendly nickname, but even calling the dude that inside his head is uncomfortable. In any case Makki is now sitting next to him. With his right hand he’s typing some kind of text message, with his left he’s pressing a gun into Tsukishima’s side.

Tsukishima doubts they’ll kill him right in the car: the bloodstains probably won’t wash out of the cloth seats. Although, he’s never killed anyone in a car, so he’s not too familiar with the details of the matter.

Mattsun throws the bag with the plates onto the passenger seat, sits down behind the wheel, and the car smoothly starts.

“How did you find me?” Tsukishima finally asks.

“Well, our people saw you and let us know where to go.” Makki hides his phone in the pocket of his pants. Now that he’s making eye contact with Tsukishima, it’s harder to talk to him.

Tsukishima still doesn’t understand.

“We’re not exactly on the best of terms with the Cartel.” Makki scratches his nose, frowning slightly. “So we decided to grab you first.”

“What does the Cartel have to do with this?” Tsukishima throws out.

Mattsun squashes a laugh, Makki eloquently raises his eyebrows. “You’re right. What does the Cartel have to do with this.” He shrugs.

The only thing Tsukishima’s done to the Cartel is steal the stereoplates they’re after, but, damn, it wasn’t just him and it wasn’t just the Cartel he did it to.

“In this town, ninety percent of the population can’t even imagine a million in cash. Of course everyone wants to see the money in real life — even if they have to deliver your head to Washijou Tanji in the process.”

Tsukishima feels that a tantalizingly empty niche has developed in the cause-and-effect diagram of his brain. He doesn’t understand what served as the catalyst for sending all the Cartel’s hounds onto him. The fact that he was acting as a double agent is only known to the Secret Service and maybe the Church, since they sent Kuroo after him. But what’s Washijou got to do with it? And what million?

He’s missing something. Some fact. The properly wound ball of yarn turned out to be a clump of tangled threads, and to unravel it he needs to pull one end. But Tsukishima has no idea which one.

Or where they’re taking him and what they’re planning to do with him when they get there. He can’t even imagine the limits of his stupidity, since he managed to get himself stuck in this mess.

“What, nothing to say?” Tsukishima catches Mattsun’s glance in the rearview mirror.

He’s winding along a road growing even narrower due to the people walking down both sides of it. The tinted windows dull the vibrant glow of the signage. This is a nightlife quarter, but not gleaming with excess like the ones which cater to foreigners. This is an area for locals, who just need a bearable picture on the way there, because they’ll be blind drunk on the way back.

Tsukishima purses his lips. “I’ll voice my complaints a bit later,” he says sourly; let them think he has everything under control.

They pass shining casinos, street stall selling food, unmarked bars. And then slow to a stop.

Tsukishima doesn’t see anything to invoke fear yet. The car parks by a nightclub: a long three-story building with facing on the bottom and a wide white-and-mint stripe of neon on top, between the brick and siding. At the very top, mint letters spell out “T H E C I T A D E L” in a bizarre font.

The Citadel.

Evidently, everyone who’s ever participated in the hunt for the stereoplates is due to arrive for his head.

“Drive up to the back entrance.” Makki’s lazily typing something into his phone again. Tsukishima slants a look at his relaxed face, estimating his odds of escaping before he’s lead inside, but rejects one idea after the other until he’s out of ideas. Although, counting them again, he only had two in the first place. “We’re not gonna take Four-Eyes through that crowd.”

Tsukishima turns his face to the window. There really is a crowd. The club doesn’t seem like something ultraexpensive and elite, but it’sclearly popular. There’s like forty people in line. Even through the closed doors you can hear music blaring inside, especially when the doors open and someone comes out. The parking lot’s packed with cars. Mattsun drives around it and turns behind the building. It’s darker and quieter here. The doors of the back entrance are visible right below a single lantern, where they pull up.

“Come out slowly, or I’ll shoot you in the, hm, thigh, for example,” Makki advises him cheerfully, taking the bag out of the front seat. The other goes to park the car.

Two more are waiting by the doors. They look a lot younger than Makki and Mattsun — in the darkness they seem around Tsukishima’s age. A tall muscular dude with a hairstyle like a turnip, and another man, shorter and thinner. Both of them are wearing vests that stick out from behind.

Makki seems to guess what Tsukishima’s thinking. “If you’re assuming the shorter one — that’s Kunimi, by the way, say hi — would be easier to steal a gun from, I don’t advise you to even try.”

And winks. Tsukishima feels himself going feral through his fear. Who could know how goddamn sick he is of all these clowns.

“Let’s go.” Makki nods, and they open the black metal doors in front of him.

Inside, there’s darkness.

“Onwards.” Makki shoves him forward with the gun.

Tsukishima goes.

***

Inside the club looks basically the same way he’d imagined it.

Of course, first they take him through the personnel area, but he can hear music from here too. On the way Makki asks the guy with the turnip hairstyle if Oikawa’s arrived yet, and Turniphead nods in affirmation. Tsukishima tenses. He still hasn’t put together the whole puzzle, but the increasing amount of familiar names he hears next to the bag on Makki’s shoulder worries him.

What else, besides the stereoplates, could push together all the existing powers in the city?

From the service corridor he’s led up a massive spiral staircase. The music in the next room is deafening. Tsukishima sees pinkish-blue reflections on the walls and the hum of the crowd. Makki pokes him in the back with the gun, not even hiding or paying any attention to the waiters flitting back and forth or the guests dancing against the staircase. Well, the Citadel does fully own the club, so it’s unlikely the police would be poking around. The owners have no reason to hide here. 

The thought isn’t very comforting.

They ascend, and from the second floor a view opens up of the smaller dancefloor, a massive bar and tables below. The arches of the main dancefloor are visible too, and there’s an endless amount of people there. The second floor has another bar, with slightly softer seats, more expensive tables, and less people. And the entire right wall is tinted windows and soundproof doors. The chillout zone.

But Tsukishima’s probably not here to relax.

“Why couldn’t you all have opened up a library?” he deadpans, obediently following Kunimi and Turniphead. “I can’t stand nightclubs.”

“Dang,” Makki says, without looking up from his phone. “Well, sorry. Come on, through this door.” He shakes his head without looking. They stop and, evidently, wait for him to finish scrolling through his Facebook timeline. Then he looks up, notices the expectant faces and hides his phone with a yelp. “My bad, guys. Okay, you two stay here” — he nods at the chairs — “just in case. If anything happens we’ll call you. And you, Kei Tsukishima, come in.”

Like he has a choice.

As soon as the door closes behind Makki, entering right before him, the space falls quiet. There’s a feeling that his ears were suddenly hit with silence. Tsukisima stares straight ahead and tries not to reveal any of his anxiety. The most important thing is for nobody to try and shake his hand. Wait, when did he start joking around in situations like these...?

“I brought him,” Makki says, stepping into the room. It’s not large, but there’s a massive U-shaped couch filling up most of the space, piled with pillows. In the middle of the couch is a low round table with a hookah and a metallic pole reaching into the ceiling. There’s no one on the pole now, just a magazine on the table. The second magazine is in the hands of a person, who looks up at their arrival.

“What?” Oikawa Tooru startles. “You brought him? It really was him?”

Makki shrugs, flopping down next to Oikawa. “Well, either him or a crazy fan who decided to grab a duffel bag” — he pulls the strap off his shoulder and dumps the bag on the table with a metallic clanging — “and fill it with Ukai’s stereoplates. Pick your favorite option.”

Oikawa leans back against the pillows, smiles cheerfully and taps a finger against his lips, staring directly at Tsukishima. He looks younger than his age, barely older than Tsukishima, despite the fact that his profile listed his age as thirty-five.

“Personally I’m just glad both options lead to him bringing us the bag,” says another person in the room. And Tsukishima recognizes him too. 

Iwaizumi Hajime gets up from the couch and slowly walks around the table towards Tsukishima. This is unsettling. Iwaizumi’s not tall, but even more built than that guy behind them, and the tattoo covered hands in the pockets of his uniform vest don’t inspire any trust.

“Know who we are?” Iwaizumi Hajime asks fairly seriously.

Tsukishima knows. He’s a smart boy, and that’s why he prepared well when he was flying here.

The gangster biker club known as “The Citadel” was founded in 2000, when its founder, Iwaizumi Hajime, was only twenty-two. Judging by the summary of the Service’s reports, originally his goals were fairly honorable: he and his group of friends opened their first auto repair shop. The racketeering, arms dealing, money laundering and smuggling cars to islands started later.

Currently, the text obediently runs through Tsukishima’s head, the Citadel is the biggest bikers club on Java and the main buyer and reseller of weapons. The name “Iwaizumi Hajime” has been used to open nineteen autoshops across the island, and the headquarters of the gang is located here, in the night club they’d built.

All this Tsukishima knows, but doesn’t rush to confirm.

“I can guess.” He nods dryly. “Why—” 

“Oh, please, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa interrupts Tsukishima and makes a face behind Iwaizumi’s back. “Who doesn’t know us in Jakarta?”

“Nah, this one’s not local,” Makki drawls lazily, staring into his phone again. “You can tell.”

“Then where’s he from? Oh!” Oikawa claps his hands excitedly, like he’s just gotten a cool idea. “Maybe he can tell us something about himself! Alright, dude. Who are you, where from, and when did you get the stereoplates of Ukai Ikkei in your hands?”

“Pretty much right after you got tricked by Daishou Suguru,” Tsukishima blurts out, and starts smiling in response. When he’s nervous, endless chatter seriously shakes his ability to silently put up with irritants.

Oikawa’s smile fades. “First of all, he didn’t just trick me.” He points his index finger at Tsukishima. “Second of all, I —”

“Let’s start with the fact that you didn’t need to get involved with Terushima Yuuji.” It’s Tsukishima’s turn to interrupt. Really it’s desperate, suicidal audacity — he doesn’t know what to expect from these guys, instead of concrete actions they’re just talking, and the expectation of an expiration date just makes Tsukishima feel worse. “I’m not local, but even I understood this from first glance.”

Makki laughs outright. Oikawa looks like he’d been hit by a bucket of water.

“In Jakarta, you can’t trust Daishou Suguru and people in crocodile-skin shoes,” Tsukishima continues. “I don’t know how you lived to this age without knowing that.”

“You know what, I like this guy,” Iwaizumi say suddenly. “He shut up Tooru, incredible!”

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa squawks indignantly, but Iwaizumi continues to cackle.

And then says to Tsukishima, “Don’t worry, kid. We’re not planning to hand you over to the Cartel. We have our own problems with them, so we’ll just take the plates and let you go.”

The last part sounds hopeful. Especially since according to the Service’s information, Iwaizumi Hajime is telling the truth. The Citadel really does have small squabbles with the Sunrise Cartel. And then Tsukishima decides to ask, “If you’ll allow me,” — he reaches to fix his glasses, but then realizes he’s not wearing them. Reaching for the case in his jacket pocket’s kind of awkward, so he pretends he was intending to fix his hair — “I don’t understand. You’re all insisting the Cartel’s after me, but when did this become a known fact? And what exactly is known?”

Iwaizumi and Oikawa exchange a look. Then Oikawa laughs in surprise. “Meaning? So... you don’t know there’s a manhunt out for you?”

“I guessed when they” — Tsukishima gestures at Makki — “grabbed me right in the middle of the street. Until then I didn’t suspect anything.”

Iwaizumi raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t know when exactly, but by evening all of Jakarta knew already. Cartel released your information and declared that you have the stereoplates. For you — dead or alive — and for the plates they’re ready to pay twelve billion rupiahs,” — he scratches his chin — “And that’s almost a million dollars. The only major contenders are the Church, the Triad and the Cartel.”

“And us,” Oikawa adds importantly.

“So it’s really surprising,” Makki jumps in, “that our guys saw you first. To be honest, we were thinking you’d already gotten grabbed like ten times.”

“Duh.” Oikawa giggles. “I’m sure all the small fry in Jakarta’s crawling out of their holes and combing through the city to lick the Cartel’s ass.”

“And get the million.”

“Yeah, and get the million.”

They keep chatting amongst themselves, and in Tsukishima’s stomach he feels like someone’s exploded a container of liquid nitrogen: everything inside’s been doused with a burning coldness.

“Seriously dude,” Iwaizumi asks, “how’d you do it? Steal the plates, that is?”

The whole city’s looking for him. The whole damn city. The question is no longer how to get out with the plates, but how to get out alive.

“Maybe he found them by accident?”

“No-no, wait, like Bruce Willis in that movie with...”

He’d just blown his cover with the Service today and most likely with the Church. Who managed to tell Washijou, and when? And why? It doesn’t make sense — the number of people after the stereoplates increases this way, and the odds of being first sharply decreases.

“God, Oikawa, your jokes suck. I don’t want to hear them anymore.”

“Wait, Makki, at least listen to the end...”

Tsukishima can’t imagine how he’s going to get out of this mess. He doesn’t even have a weapon. He doesn’t have anything.

“Don’t piss me off, Tooru.”

“You’re pissing yourself off, Iwa-chan, I had nothing to do with it!”

The answer suddenly appears out of nowhere — Tsukishima just gets hit with inspiration. Well of course. Who else could it be. He tsks irritably.

Kuroo.

No logic, pure emotions: I almost got killed because of you, so now you’ll almost get killed because of me. Or actually get killed, however the case may be. Sorry.

It’s not the time or place to think about Kuroo and his relationship to Tsukishima himself. Trying to distract himself, Tsukishima forces himself to stop his endless train of thoughts on the one that he latched onto from the first time he heard the story about the stereoplate reselling.

“Excuse me,” he says, stopping some kind of argument that’d broken out between Iwaizumi and Oikawa. Both of them stare at him in surprise. Evidently people in the organized crime scene don’t usually act like that. “May I ask a question?”

Iwaizumi nods, perplexed.

“Why do you want the plates?” Tsukishima asks, trying to banish insistent thoughts of Kuroo. “You run an auto and arms dealing business. Why bother with counterfeiting?”

Oikawa wrinkles his nose and answers instead of Iwaizumi. “We weren’t even planning on it, please.”

Iwaizumi backs him up. “Weren’t even thinking about it. We have influential clients from Hong Kong interested in this... sphere. Don’t want to get involved in a conflict with the Cartel, but promised to pay us eighteen million if we grab the plates for them.” He nods at the bag. “That’s on top of what they’d give for just buying the plates... Back when they were still for sale. So we agreed, it’s too good a profit.”

He smirks. Iwaizumi has a rough face, full of sharp angles, but Tsukishima suddenly enjoys talking to him. In any case, out of of everyone he’s met in Jakarta, he’s the only one who looks normal. And, as a pleasant bonus, isn’t trying to kill him.

“But is it worth getting into a conflict with the Cartel?” Tsukishima arches a brow.

Iwaizumi sits down on the couch. “Lately in Jakarta it’s been impossible not to fight with the Cartel.” His voice betrays his dissatisfaction. “Washijou’s spreading his empire like a plague, and it’s crowding others out of the market. And the more he develops, the harsher he becomes, and most people in town, or even in this country, are already unhappy with it. He monopolized the drug traffic in the South China Sea and soon, I’m sure, will move into Oceania and crush the Church of Lascano. He’s not interested in them for now, but that could change.”

Oikawa grows more somber as well, and adds, “If there’s anything happening in this city he doesn’t like, you’re screwed. His guys put pressure on all the small-time gangs. If it continues like this, Jakarta might have a full-out gang war. The old fart’s gotten too big for his britches.”

“He has some good guys on his team.” Iwaizumi sighs. “Tendou, obviously, goes overboard a lot, but Ushijima’s pretty okay...”

“Wait what?” Oikawa asks, instantly abandoning his serious grim tone and raising his voice. “Ushiwaka’s not a bad guy? Iwa-chan! What are you insinuating!”

“Listen, if you ha—”

Suddenly all three of them fall silent and tense. Oikawa’s face develops a funny surprised expression, Makki raises his eyebrows, and Iwaizumi grows steadily more furious.

Tsukishima doesn’t understand at first — and then hears through the music certain sounds which are standard for Jakarta.

Someone is shooting up the dancefloor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oikawa!


	16. Chapter 16

The people shooting could be small gangs, or the Triad — they’d have to put up a fight to survive then. But it could also be the Cartel, in which case they’re all dead.

Iwaizumi walks up to the window with a view of the dancefloor. Tsukishima’s not sure how much freedom of movement he has here, but Oikawa throws one leg over the other and asks, “So, who’s there?”

Iwaizumi’s straight, tattoo-covered shoulders sink. He raises his head and roars, and then nervously waves in the direction of the window. “You’ll never guess.”

Tsukishima steps over to the window in two unhurried steps and sees the answer to this eternal question. Right at this moment the answer’s slamming a security guard’s head against the edge of the bar counter and dragging him across, shattering glasses in the process. And then deftly turns around, waves the hand holding his gun at another guy and goes somewhere to the right. Where, according to Tsukishima’s calculations, the staircase leading up here is located.

“Tendou?” Oikawa frowns. “No? Xiaolun? What, still wrong? Don’t tell me it’s Ushiwa—”

“Shut up.” Iwaizumi waves him, and Oikawa widens his eyes in feigned surprise. “Hanamaki, take the stereoplates, hide them with Matsukawa, you know where. And take this guy” — a nod at Tsukishima — “somewhere out of here.”

“Just don’t get the car dirty.” Oikawa smiles with the corner of his mouth.

“No, just take him away. You don’t have to touch the kid.”

Tsukishima wants to build a memorial to his rationalism. Iwaizumi’s quickly becoming his favorite resident of Jakarta.

“What about us?” Oikawa straightens the arm he has thrown across the back of the couch.

“And we’ll be having a nice heart-to-heart with Kuroo Tetsurou.” A nod at the glass, behind which a neon lamp over the shelves falls to the floor and takes any intact bottles with it. “And in addition discuss how much he now owes us for damages.”

Oikawa starts nervously swinging his leg. Tsukishima thinks he’s fighting with the desire to jump up, run to Kuroo and poke him with either a finger or a gun.

“Hanamaki, go.” Iwaizumi stretches his neck.

Looks like the “discussion” isn’t going to happen with words.

And they go. Tsukishima still can’t believe they’re letting him go this easily. Who could’ve guessed that the friendliest guys in this city are the bikers. Although looking at Hanamaki or even Oikawa you couldn’t immediately identify either of them as bikers. Tsukishima remembers the report: the official member count of the Citadel motorcycle club is 200-something people. Another hundred — various kinds of criminals, starting with racketeers and ending with people like Oikawa. His file’s firmly stuck in Tsukishima’s head, even though he doesn’t seem to be behind the wheel here. It’s probably because the lines about several hushed-up murders and financial machinations were attached to a photo of an irritatingly cutesy face.

They cross the now empty hall with its abandoned drinks on low tables, walk down a narrow corridor and ignore the stairs they climbed up originally. 

Hanamaki has the bag on his shoulder and his phone in his hand, and he says, “Mattsun, did you park yet? Great, now come back. We’ve got” — sound of glass breaking behind their backs — “Kuroo Tetsurou here.”

“Here” is already behind them. A lump of emotions sticks in Tsukishima’s throat, and he very much wants to punch that smug face and ask, when did he fucking turn him in to Washijou. Common sense says it might not even have been Kuroo, but who else had a motive?

“The very same,” Hanamaki answers briefly, ends the call and hides his phone again. His tone is the total opposite of how people usually talk about celebrities, just nervous laughter and skepticism, but it’s ideal for Kuroo.

Hanamaki straightens the bag on his shoulder. There it is, just reach out and grab it. And then run, because they’re shooting from behind and waiting ahead, but this is the first and last chance Tsukishima has to get his own back. After this is just the car, where he can’t even turn around. 

Tsukishima begins to formulate an idea. A terrible one, if he’s being honest. Before Jakarta he never would’ve behaved like this, but in a place where you have to search for cool spots between burning coals, hopping nonstop, there isn’t much choice. The only thing to counterbalance the negatives of the situation is some emotional tinsel. "So while this is the wrong thing to do if he's trying to not be an ungrateful swine, the fact remains that sometimes one simply must."

Deafen and knock out.

Tsukishima sighs, stretches his shaking fingers — and whacks Hanamaki on the ears, forcefully. Hanamaki turns around, wincing, opens his eyes wide. Tsukishima tries to force his head to the wall, but doesn’t manage it, and gets hit in the solar plexus instead.

“Not funny,” Hanamaki says somewhere above him. “Who’s your employer, if you’re trying this...”

Tsukishima has his own fighting style — “hit and run.” Full title: “hit with closed eyes where you can reach, and run as fast as possible.” He punches Hanamaki in the knee, but there’s no crunching sound.

“What an ungrateful bastard you are.” Hanamaki reaches for the holster on his belt.

That’s not great. Tsukishima hits him on his arm with his fist, elbows him in the ribs and tugs the bag off his shoulder. But Hanamaki manages to catch hold of the bag. Tsukishima pulls the strap towards himself — it’s taut. Pulls again, bites Hanamaki’s wrist so hard he can feel the tendons move under his teeth and, when Hanamaki whines from pain, grabs the bag and runs.

Running forward isn’t an option, that’s where Matsukawa’s waiting, sliding past him unnoticed definitely isn’t going to happen now. So Tsukishima runs back.

Most likely, Iwaizumi, Oikawa and Kuroo are currently holding an enlightened discussion in the chillout zone, possibly with some light gunfire elements. Tsukishima has two options, and both of them are horrible in equal measure: he could hide from Hanamaki, firing into his back, and then quietly roll out of the club; or he could roll out of the club now, but that’s only if the shootout on the first floor took out all the guards and chased out all the visitors.

But there’s a reason there are so many sayings about how the gods laugh at various Clever Plans.

There’s a body lying across the entrance to the chillout — a beefy security guard, without blood or bullet holes, but also unconscious. Tsukishima turns sharply right and ends up on the spiral staircase leading down.

“Fucking wait!” Hanamaki yells at him.

Every step down the metallic staircase makes a ringing sound. After a turn and a half Tsukishima ends up on the first floor and starts running. Broken glass creaks under his feet, he hops over a prone body in a black suit and lands on a bluish puddle of a cocktail. His shoes slide forward, the heavy bag drags him to the left, and Tsukishima expends all his energy on staying upright. Ahead of him is an overturned barstool; Tsukishima jumps over it and crashes into a bandaged shoulder.

“God, fuck, Jesus!” Kuroo whines.

“God, fuck, Jesus,” Tsukishima echoes him silently.

In front of him is Oikawa, with one hand on his belt and a finger on the trigger of his gun, Iwaizumi, holding Kuroo in his crosshairs, and Kuroo himself — pointing his gun at Iwaizumi, but moving his hand to the side because Tsukishima jostled him.

At that moment Hanamaki catches up to them and stops, an arm’s length away.

“What’s going on here?” Iwaizumi asks calmly, but Tsukishima still has goosebumps.

“Well, look.” Hanamaki nods at the bag in Tsukishima’s hands.

“The stereoplates or did you just come from pilates?” Kuroo bends down, examining the black striped Adidas.

“You think you’re funny?” Oikawa smiles sweetly.

Tsukishima doesn’t want to know who thinks who’s funny. Tsukishima wants to get out of here alive as fast as possible. And maybe poke the wound on Kuroo’s shoulder a bit for turning him in to Washijou.

“Nope, don’t start,” Iwaizumi orders. There’s clear disappointment in his eyes. Tsukishima wasn’t prepared to face the consequences of his decision.

“You.” He points the gun at Tsukishima. “Put the bag on the floor and walk away.”

“Why are you so determined to let him go?” Oikawa squints.

“And you, Kuroo,” Iwaizumi says, ignoring the question, “stay. We have a lot to talk about.”

Kuroo looks Tsukishima up and down. Evidently he did come here for the plates. “Like what?”

“You beat up all our guards.”

“They were shooting at me, I was offended.”

“Scared our clients.”

“Free advertising for this place.”

“You wrecked our bar?” Oikawa suggests another option. “And not just the bar.”

“I was looking for the stereoplates and my princess, I had a reason,” Kuroo declares in a dramatic voice. Seeing he won’t get the reaction he wants, adds, “What, not working?”

“I’ve stated our terms,” Iwaizumi answers shortly, cutting the chatters. “No, not working.”

“I think it’s fairly interesting,” Hanamaki says neutrally.

“Did you find your princess?” Oikawa snorts.

Kuroo eloquently waves his hand from Tsukishima’s head to his feet.

“So?” Iwaizumi asks, his patience visibly cracking.

“Nah, I think I’ll leave with just the plates today,” Kuroo says, confirming everyone’s guesses, and yawns.

Hanamaki catches the yawn. “What, are we shooting again?”

Tsukishima wants to turn to him and yell “No!” Tsukishima wants to turn to Kuroo and yell, “Are you a moron?!” Tsukishima wants to ask, “Seriously, three against two, only one of whom has a gun and only one of whom has two fully functional arms?”

Tsukishima looks at Kuroo. Kuroo squints at Tsukishima and, when he catches his gaze, turns around and smiles.

“Well yeah.” Kuroo nods neutrally. “Maybe without Oikawa though? He might ruin his hairstyle.”

“Seriously? You’re telling  _ me  _ that?” Oikawa lets out an incredulous laugh and automatically smooths down his hair. “Are you getting paid to walk around with that on your head?”

“Iwaizumi,” Kuroo begins in a funereal tone, “note that it wasn’t I who destroyed the smallest hope of peace.”

And after that starts god knows what: Kuroo dives behind the bar, Tsukishima slams the heavy bag into Hanamaki’s weapon arm and dives after him. He lands right on the countertop, drags himself to the floor, nearly breaks his neck on an icebreaking machine and ends up on the floor next to Kuroo.

“We’re on the same side of the barricades again.” Kuroo fires a few times and turns to him.

Tsukishima sits on the floor, knees bent, pulling his neck into his shoulders and the bag with the plates closer to him. The downside is, even if they do make it out of here, they’ll still have to fight for the bag amongst themselves.

“Unfortunately,” Tsukishima responds politely and rubs his face.

“Truce!” Oikawa hollers instantly.

Silence falls. Kuroo cautiously pokes his head out from behind the bar.

“Kidding!” Oikawa says. And starts shooting.

“You’ve never had a sense of humor and still don’t!” There’s something vengeful in Kuroo’s tone when he dives back down.

“I have an excellent sense of humor!” Oikawa protests, and, damn, Tsukishima’d heard this somewhere before.

“Is this revenge for that Puerto Rican chick?” Kuroo asks indignantly, completely covered in shards of broken glass.

“She was Chilean,” Oikawa corrects him pedantically. “And no, this isn’t revenge for the Chilean girl!”

“Oikawa, how many years has it been, I’m begging you.” Kuroo rolls his eyes, and then sticks a new cartridge into his gun and throws the old one to the side without looking. 

No, Tsukishima’s not interested, he doesn’t care. But Kuroo glances at him and starts assuring, “Me and Oikawa never had anything serious! Just a fling.”

“Three years of fucking, and nothing serious?!” is heard from behind the barricades.

Tsukishima looks at Kuroo meaningfully. Kuroo whispers, “Fucked in the head, more like.”

“Okay, everybody shut up! Hanamaki, shut up Oikawa! Glasses, shut up Shaggy Hair!” Iwaizumi restores order. “Truce!”

Kuroo and Tsukishima exchange a look. Maybe Kuroo’s capable of coming up with yet another genius plan, but not Tsukishima. Tsukishima understand that in this position with their resources they won’t be able to hold out for long.

Kuroo answers, “We don’t believe you! Shoot Oikawa first!”

Nevertheless they slowly peek out from behind the bar. As they should’ve expected, a bullet instantly flies into a bottle on the shelf behind them. The bottle bursts. Tsukishima bends down, hiding his head from the shards. His hands sting with pain, splashes of alcohol hit his neck. A lot of splashes.

“Iwa-chan just said don’t shoot, Makki, come on!” Oikawa whines irritably. “You just hit a seventy dollar bottle of Calvados!”

Tsukishima doesn’t feel any better about it: it all just smells like alcohol to him.

“It endured so bravely, and you...” Oikawa continues.

“So, truce or no?” Kuroo asks, pressing his hands against the bar. One of the shards, a small one, but still, is sticking out of his back, but it’s like he doesn’t even notice it.

“It was such a Calvados...” Oikawa sighs mournfully.

Kuroo suddenly pulls Tsukishima close to him and runs his tongue over Tsukishima’s neck. “Yeah, pretty good Calvados.”

Tsukishima hits him on the wrist, looks up at him and starts wiping off the foreign spit with his sleeve.

At that moment there’s an explosion somewhere in the distance.

Tsukishima’s certain it’s an explosion, because buildings only shake like this from an explosion or an earthquake, but Tsukishima doesn’t believe in nature’s sense of timing. He’s more likely to bet on some brave kid from the Cartel with a weighted grenade.

And in the next moment he sees how a group from the Cartel appear from above, led by Tendou Satori.

“Well, shit,” Tsukishima hisses.

“Well, shit,” Kuroo agrees. And then screams at top volume, “Tendou, you weren’t invited to this party, go away!”

“Kuroo!” Tendou yells down at him. “God, you’ve only been here for two weeks, and I’m already so tired of you!”

“Do you have a weapon?” Kuroo asks, turning his head. Tsukishima shows him his empty hands. Kuroo curses through gritted teeth, and then reaches with his free hand for the nearest bottle and breaks the bottom of it against a corner. The alcohol flows, drenching his fingers and shirt sleeve, but he just shakes his hand and passes the remains to Tsukishima.

“And how’s this supposed to help me against gunfire?” Tsukishima asks, instead of being grateful.

“God willing!” Kuroo answers almost irritably.

“Have you suddenly reconsidered killing me?”

They look at each other for a few seconds, until gunshots, yelling and cursing start over their heads. There’s an especially loud shout of “Stop wrecking my club!” from Iwaizumi’s voice.

“I’ve cooled off on that idea a bit,” Kuroo answers evenly, without a hint of a joke, and turns around to reload. He’s trying not to move his other shoulder, but his hand is fine. “But we’ll see how you behave.”

Then he raises his arm and fires a few times at random.

They’re getting shot at, Kuroo aims back, and then stands up suddenly. Tsukishima doesn’t want to follow him, but Kuroo steps out from behind the bar, firing at someone. He should get up too.

And then he notices what Kuroo doesn’t — Semi is aiming at Kuroo’s back.

His legs move forward so fast, Tsukishima doesn’t even have time to think when he pushes Kuroo sideways and they both fall to the floor, right onto the broken glass and spilled alcohol.

“Fucking hell!” Kuroo whines, lying next to him on his side. Tsukishima props himself up on his elbow, feeling how he’d just met the glass with his face. But he’s not upset. 

They’re alive, both of them.

“My aaaaaaarm,” Kuroo continues to moan.

“If you continue to lie here you’ll get killed,” Tsukishima optimistically shares his observations with Kuroo, kneeling and trying to orient himself in the space.

They’re shooting from all corners. Kuroo instantly stops complaining and stands back up, but before he dives behind some corner, says, “Just so you know, if they kill me, they kill both of us. You’re as helpless as a baby kitten.” And dodges the gunshots to the right. Tsukishima rolls away to the left, but it turns out a lot clumsier than when Kuroo did it, and not even because of the bag in his arms. So maybe the guy has a point.

Looking around, Tsukishima decides to get to the other staircase and stands up, trying to run to avoid the bullets.

And then someone yanks the bag off his shoulder. He flies backwards forcefully, trips against something and drops to the floor. The something turns out to be a corpse riddled with bullet holes — Tsukishima sucks in a breath, loudly and almost hysterically. It looks like the next body’s going to be his.

A light-haired guy with a straight haircut is holding the bag in one hand and a gun, pointing at Tsukishima, in the other. And this guy doesn’t look like someone who points a gun as a joke. No, this guy intends to kill him.

The thought hits him a moment before the guy presses the trigger. Shirabu, sparks in his brain suddenly, he was in the hotel that time. Tsukishima rolls over and dives behind an overturned table: blood and alcohol slip under him, his legs slide apart, but he makes it in time.

To the left — nothing. To the right — nothing. Behind — Shirabu.

Tsukishima forces his brain to work. Far right, behind the bar, Kuroo’s shooting at someone. To the left, Iwaizumi’s beating someone up with a chair. Oikawa’s not visible, but he’s the last person Tsukishima would want to call for help. No one here would want to help him steal the plates just because, right?

Suddenly a bullet lodges into the edge of a metallic table. The table vibrates, and Tsukishima turns his head and sees a small dent. He understands that the only thing separating him from a bullet like that is a thin metallic sheet in a metal frame.

He wonders what Akiteru would like more — the stereoplates or a living younger brother?

Well, Akiteru loves him. And that settles it.

Tsukishima, gathering his wits, charges forward. He’s not ready to give up his life because of a bag containing perfect currency engravings and so chooses the option that’ll allow him to survive.

“Hey! Where’re you going!” Kuroo hollers from the other end of the hall, but Tsukishima ignores him and puts on a final burst of speed to the next door. Here there’s less victims, everyone managed to evacuate the club before the arrival of the Cartel.

Bullets continue to whistle overhead, one grazes his hip slightly. But even if it wasn’t slight, it’s unlike he’d have noticed now.

This goddamn town. This goddamn week. This goddamn day.

He doesn’t even remember how exactly he manages to get away from Shirabu. He just runs. For the first time today, he doesn’t look back. He just wants to get out of here.

His run takes him into the streets, but he keeps sprinting like a maniac until he hits the highway. Either fate finally decides to take some pity on him, or it’s the start of even more misadventures, but for the second time in twenty four hours he, bleeding and soaking wet from head to toe, jumps into a taxi.

***

And an hour and a half later he definitely wants to die. Lie down, pass on quietly and let someone find him under the bed three days later.

Tsukishima pours antiseptic into his cuts and slaps huge bandaids on them. The Chinese girl at the reception desk handed over the first aid kid with reluctance, looking at him like at a diseased degenerate until Tsukishima shows her his scratched up arm. He couldn’t come up with a more convincing argument than that.

In the hotel room he spends a long time washing out the dirt and blood from under his fingernails. The glass door of the shower stall is attached to the wall by the sink, which has a trail of rust spreading down from the faucet. Tsukishima’s trying to think about little things, instead of thinking about how much deep shit he’s in right now.

He remembers the pressed suits he had to wear in Miami, polished shoes, exchange reports and bank branches. He looks at his reflection in the mirror: a bruise on his cheekbone, blood caked into his forehead, a scratch on his chin. Instead of a pressed suit, a shirt with a torn sleeve stained with dried blood and a collar turned brown from liquor.

All the money he had he’d spent on the love hotel room. He has no change of clothes, and tomorrow morning he needs to get out. And it’ll be like an Olympic sprint through a minefield.

Tsukishima washes his face, rubs water into his temples and puts his glasses on. He won’t sleep tonight: he was too scared to even shower, because the sound of the water would hide the noise of someone trying to break in.

When he steps out of the bathroom, the bedroom greets him with a gleaming satin bedspread on a massive bed and a red neon lamp on the wall shaped like women’s lips. It’s so hideous it’s even funny.

Positive — survived today. Negative — everything else. The real stereoplates right now are probably with the Cartel. Tsukishima ruined everything.

They certainly found someone for this serious assignment. Tsukishima didn’t say he wasn’t going to accomplish anything, the situation didn’t let him, but he did vividly assume as much. Tomorrow he’ll honestly admit that he fucked it all up. The day after he’ll either be drifting facedown in the sea of Java, or he’ll be back in the States, further away from gang wars, shootouts, fights. Getting hit in the face with the side of a gun, kisses in alleyways, stolen arms, presumptuous idiots who jump off skyscrapers, and this stinging feeling, so hot it almost smells like something’s burning.

Tsukishima sits down on the bed. It springs upwards. Making love on a bed like this is probably like a rodeo. If Kuroo hadn’t given him up to Washijou, then... His subsequent thoughts are swallowed by a headache and self-delusion. He rubs his aching temples, when the door shakes from someone knocking on it. It’s half past midnight. If there is somewhere a compendium of rules for surviving in Jakarta, then not trusting nighttime guests would absolutely be written as one of the first bullets in an embossed and gilded font.

“Room service!” Kuroo’s voice announces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has everything: callbacks, title drops, oikawa tooru....  
> the line about emotional tinsel required consultation with named_Juan, thank u for the help <3  
> lmao @ myself when I thought I could finish translating this whole fic in two months... hubris  
> next chapter's gonna take a little longer bc a) reasons and b) it's the Smut Chapter so I need to like. mentally prepare myself for the experience haha


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took relatively long I'm uncomfortable w/sex scenes so I procrastinated hard but yeah they f*ck in this one

Tsukishima had slipped out of the club fairly quickly, but the entire last week of his life is a story about how bad he is at getting rid of tails.

He stands up from the bed, which ripples in a wave. Fucking rodeo. In a parallel universe he’d have tried to stay on the bull as long as possible, but not at this time, not in this city, and not in this universe where Kuroo either shoots at him or kisses him as he sees fit.

The last thing Tsukishima wants right now is to interact with him after he’d run away from the club. And right now he intends to run away again. Carefully stepping onto the soft carpet, he walks to the window and pushes the glass up. The fire escape is a yard away, and this is the third floor, so he shouldn’t have any problems getting down. Tsukishima’s putting one knee on the windowsill when the door swings open from a kick, the lock shatters the dry wooden doorframe, and a warning shot lodges into the ceiling.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Kuroo grins from the threshold.

Tsukishima urgently tries to throw his leg over the window, but he’s pulled back in by the hem of his shirt and tossed to the floor. Kuroo’s hairstyle, looming over him, looks even more ridiculous against the light of the round overhead lamp.

“You like dumping me, huh?” Kuroo crouches down next to him, his gun waving dangerously close to Tsukishima’s face.

Tsukishima props himself up on his elbows to stand, but Kuroo presses the gun into his ribs, forcing him to lay back down. Tsukishima struggles until it seems like his bones are about to shatter. He’s choking on surprise and vindictiveness.

“Excuse me, what?”

Tsukishima agrees: he might not win the award for greatest asshole around, but he’s at least in the semifinals.

But does Kuroo think he should’ve stayed in that club and sat supportively in a corner while Kuroo shot? Or maybe die out of politeness?

“Seriously?” Kuroo’s still smiling, and Tsukishima feels uneasy. “Seriously, dude? Hamaima Tower, that’s one.” He bends his middle finger around the handle of the gun. “Right now, that’s two.” He bends his pointer finger, and that lands on the trigger; the muzzle presses into Tsukishima’s cheek, and he turns away. “Besides that, the shelf at the factory.”

Kuroo moves the gun to his temple. If he presses the trigger, Tsukishima’s brains will fly out of his head like party confetti.

“Or how you tricked me in the alley.”

Kuroo drags the gun across his neck. Tsukishima stares at the dirty carpet, the legs of the dresser, the entrance to the bathroom, but the only thing he sees is that damn alley.

“And the shoulder.” Tsukishima folds his wet trembling hands into fists. “That was the most disappointing one. Remember?”

Yes, he remembers. Tsukishima acts fast: lands a hit on the bandage around Kuroo’s shoulder, rolls to the side, gets to his feet and runs to the door.

“You son of a bitch,” Kuroo hisses after him and fires.

Tsukishima dives behind the bed, scraping his knees and chin.

“That hurt, actually!” Kuroo exclaims, climbing up on the bed.

Tsukishima jumps up and throws the alarm clock on the table at him, yanking it out of its power source.

“That’s what I was counting on,” he answers hoarsely.

The clock slams against the floral-patterned wall and shatters into pieces.

“Ugly little moves.” Kuroo bites his lip and smiles.

Tsukishima tries to ignore this smile, his insides tying themselves into knots, and the fact that he seems to be getting wound up. He wants to say he learned from the best, but Kuroo fights fair most of the time. Which means Tsukishima taught himself. No, Jakarta’s definitely taking him to a new level of self-education.

Tsukishima veers right towards the door, but Kuroo instantly leaps off the bed, catches his wrist in a death grip and pushes him to the wall. Moves in like he really is about to kiss Tsukishima, but he stops that train of thought and manages to dodge the next hit. Kuroo’s fist crashes into the wall with a dull thud.

“It’s one thing to leave someone to die...” There’s so much enthusiasm in Kuroo’s voice, it’s like this has nothing to do with him. He shoots Tsukishima in the legs, chasing him into the center of the room, and slams the door shut. The lock is gone, but after a hit like that it’s stuck fast in the doorframe. “And another thing to shoot someone.” Kuroo comes closer, slowly.

Why rush when you have all night ahead of you, and a gun in your hand.

“I saved you. Shimizu would’ve shot you in the head.”

Kuroo freezes and raises his eyebrows.

“Really? That’s how you’re justifying that one?”

Tsukishima agrees: it sounded stupid. Like they’re competing to see who cares more. And it’s true. But it’s true. He’s the only one who knows how sweaty his hands were, how badly they were shaking and how scared he was of hitting the wrong spot. He’s the only one who’s aware that for a few minutes he just couldn’t press the trigger. How scared he was.

“I’m not justifying myself,” Tsukishima snaps back. His voice has so much furious hurt in it that Kuroo stretches his lips into a mocking smile: he doesn’t believe him. Well, to hell with him. Like Tsukishima needed gratitude. He’s aware of his own failings.

Kuroo watches mockingly, until he gets a fist in the stomach, and Tsukishima gets headbutted hard. His head starts ringing.

Tsukishima doesn’t want to die, he’s not planning to die today, but if Kuroo just shoots him, he just might dot all the “i”s. Yeah, he definitely wants to kill Tsukishima. Tsukishima understands that it’s just his brain right now that’s a gutter of vulgarity. Those two kisses were an accident, and if your hands have a gun in them, you have to shoot.

“You’re a tiny cowardly puppy.’ Kuroo elbows him under his ribs and grabs his hair when he bends over to try and catch his breath. “Does someone have to die so you understand we’re not messing around here?” He whispers in Tsukishima’s ear, pushing the gun into his carotid artery. His pulse beats at gunpoint.

“You gave me up to Washijou.” Tsukishima doesn’t have anything left to say; he’s jerking his head, trying to break free, but Kuroo holds tight.

Feeling helpless is some shit.

“What?” Kuroo asks dumbly, releasing Tsukishima’s hair and pushing him in the back.

“You told him I was in Hamaima Tower.” Tsukishima’s breathing hard, the hurt bleeds into his voice, and it’s the worst feeling in the world.

“Seriously?”

“Should I repeat myself?”

“I didn’t turn you in. I’m not you, you pathetic bastard.”

Tsukishima’s legs are threatening to buckle. The bedside dresser is behind him, but he won’t let himself lean against it, like it’s a matter of principle.

“I have no idea who turned you in.” Kuroo puts the gun on the dresser. “But when we met with your former management, Washijou was already terrorizing them about a betrayal. It turns out you guys were friends, and betrayed his friendship with the best intentions. Maybe your guys shoved it all onto a traitor in their ranks.”

Kuroo sticks his left leg out, cracks his knuckles and says, “You fucked over your boss, your boss fucked you over. It’s all fair.”

And adds, “I’m not planning on killing you. But I will beat you up a bit.”

Kuroo starts moving. Instead of a predictable hit with his fist, he kicks Tsukishima in the stomach. Tsukishima manages to stagger to the right, and the hit slides off. He knocks over the dresser, it falls sideways, the lampshade flies off the lamp.

“I know everything in you is boiling and frothing with rage.” Kuroo blocks, moves Tsukishima’s arm to the side and bends it forcefully to the windowsill.

He’s expecting an answer, and Tsukishima’s waiting for him to stop pressing so closely to his ass, before impatiently stepping on Kuroo’s foot with his heel. This whole thing seems more and more like some perverse foreplay, and if he thinks for a second that it doesn’t mean the same for Kuroo, then he wants to punch him even more.

Kuroo gasps, and immediately starts laughing. Tsukishima hits him under his knee, but Kuroo doesn’t move. “You’ve got, like, zero strength.”

“And you’ve got a surplus,” Tsukishima hisses, just to say something.

The hits fall without stopping: palpable, but not painful, and others which make Tsukishima want to scream. His whole body is just one big bruise now. Kuroo bends his arms back with a particular zeal and whispers humiliating nonsense in his ear. Tsukishima pushes him in the direction of the wall and raises his fist — for a second it seems like he’s going to get pulled in by his shirt collar and kissed, but that doesn’t happen.

Instead Kuroo knocks him off his feet, and it seems like he’s about to sit on top of him, but that doesn’t happen either. So Tsukishima bites his forearm, without subtext, he thinks, but all of his energy goes to not sucking the skin and licking the wound — Kuroo’s headbutting him.

“You know what I’m wondering right now?” Kuroo asks, and, god, how the fuck is Tsukishima supposed to know what’s going on in his stupid head. 

Kuroo grabs him across his body and drops him on the floor, but gets kicked in the knee again, this time successfully. He falls down next to Tsukishima, almost on his injured arm. This seems extremely unfair to Tsukishima: why can’t he deal with an opponent who he clearly has an advantage over?

Flattened, Kuroo tries to get him between his ribs, but gets him in the knee, tangles in his arms, smacks their foreheads together. Kuroo’s fighting at half strength, but if Tsukishima zones out for a second it’ll be too late. Tsukishima grabs him by the wrist, squeezes forcefully, kneels over him. Kuroo underneath him is breathing hard, his cheeks are red, his shoulders glisten from sweat. His expression is feral.

“Well?” He won’t let up, and his voice is impossibly hoarse. “Do you know?”

Tsukishima doesn’t know. He’s so done with all of this.

“I have no idea,” he answers sourly.

The only thing he wants now is to turn around and leave entirely. But slightly more than that, he’d like to be below. Dreams do come true, right?

Kuroo catches him around his waist, pulls him closer with his legs and deftly switches their positions. Tsukishima’s still holding his arm in a death grip, but he doesn’t feel the same horror he felt in the factory, he won’t go into spacey conversations about how scared he is, he’s not planning to show weakness and...

He’s still squeezing Kuroo’s wrist, only Kuroo’s pressing Tsukishima’s hand down to the floor with his own arm, while leaning forward and whispering almost into his lips, “I’m wondering if we’re gonna fuck today or not.”

The words give off a powerful echo inside.

“Yes!” Tsukishima’s ready to beg. But instead, he asks haughtily, “So that’s what you came here for?

“What, did it look like I was planning on killing you?” Kuroo pretends to be shocked.

Tsukishima throws his head back, his pulse races under Kuroo’s lips where it had beat at gunpoint earlier. Kuroo bites the skin there and stretches it, licks his neck, grabs his chin with his teeth and smashes their mouths together. He kisses like he’d broken through a wall to get there.

Tsukishima tries to pause several times and each time forgets what he was going to do when he gets his hands under Kuroo’s shirt. Kuroo winds the tip of his tongue around Tsukishima’s ear, straightens up, stretches, takes his shirt off himself — he doesn’t even need any help with his arm. The bandage stops him for a few seconds, but he throws the shirt to the side quickly. Tsukishima freezes, unable to look away: the lilac map of bruises and scratches on Kuroo’s stomach and chest looks enticing. And if he was still capable of breathing, this definitely would’ve taken his breath away.

He raises his knee, and Kuroo rubs against him while his hand blindly fiddles with the buckle on his pants and digs into his pocket. Tsukishima can hear the rustling of the condom wrapper. Kuroo fidgets, undoes the button and his fly and whispers feverishly, “Sit.”

Kuroo’s thumbs press against Tsukishima’s nipples under his t-shirt. Tsukishima presses his lips together and answers with a trembling inhale, and then moves to sit up slightly. Kuroo’s sitting on his hips, knees spread far apart, and his hands are already reaching for Tsukishima’s t-shirt.

Kuroo’s looking at his face with a barely coherent, greedy expression, and they start kissing again. Tsukishima’s trying to bite every part of Kuroo he can reach, and at one point overdoes it and Kuroo hisses and digs his fingertips into Tsukishima’s hip to the point of pain.

Tsukishima tries to say something, but instead sighs loudly, and it almost sounds like a sob.

_ “I like when it’s loud.” _

And then he gasps: Kuroo, pulling off his underwear, stares for a few seconds, and then bends over and wraps his mouth around the tip of Tsukishima’s dick. Tsukishima arches back, breathing through tightly gritted teeth, trying to restrain himself, but when Kuroo goes lower, he lets out a moan. Tsukishima reaches a hand up to his mouth, but freezes and grabs Kuroo by his shoulders instead, sweaty palms sliding down.

“Put it in already,” Tsukishima whispers soundlessly, eyes fluttering shut. At that moment Kuroo’s teeth slightly catch on his skin and he can’t stand it anymore. “Fuck! Put it in me!”

Kuroo stops for a moment, pulls back and asks, “Say that one more time.”

It’s not difficult for Tsukishima, but in this situation he’s too embarrassed, and all that’s left is to hope that he’s at his maximum redness and can’t blush any harder. He closes his eyes again and feels Kuroo’s fingers, slippery with lube, carefully massaging his hole. Was Kuroo like carrying lube with him all day or what?

“Maybe on the bed?” Kuroo suggests quietly, starting to stretch him apart gently. Tsukishima doesn’t understand the question immediately, because the fingers in him are driving him insane.

“No,” Tsukishima’s voice cracks on the vowel. “There’s a spring...”

Before he can finish speaking, Kuroo looms over him, and the tip of his dick presses against Tsukishima’s ass. Tsukishima relaxes and opens his eyes. He really enjoys watching Kuroo: the spread of his shoulders, his pecs, his strong arms — the hungry gaze piercing him through. He can feel Kuroo entering slowly, and anchoring Tsukishima’s hips with his knees. Kuroo slowly pushes through and lies down on top of Tsukishima.

“Everything okay?” Kuroo whispers right above Tsukishima’s ear, sloppily kissing his collarbones. Who could’ve thought that the fucker who beat his face in with a gun handle would turn out to be this caring.

“You think I’m some kind of shrinking violet?”

But Kuroo, instead of answering, kisses him so hard Tsukishima loses any coherent thoughts he might’ve had in his head. He sticks to Tsukishima with his whole body, and his tongue just goes deeper into Tsukishima’s mouth. His sweaty bangs fall into Tsukishima’s face and Tsukishima can’t fight temptation and digs his fingers into the coarse hair.

Tsukishima’s losing his mind from the sensations; his emotions are overflowing and choking him. Every thrust Kuroo makes pushes him closer to the edge, and Tsukishima, not strong enough to delay his orgasm any longer, wraps a hand around his cock.

“Let me.” Kuroo willfully moves his hand away.

Tsukishima wants to smirk, say something sharp and mocking, but when Kuroo really does take Tsukisihma’s dick into his hand and grip it tightly with his large, rough fingers, the words stop with his breath. Tsukishima moans, loudly and completely openly, not even trying to restrain himself anymore.

_ “I like when it’s loud.” _

And Tsukishima’s never been quiet in bed. 

Kuroo’s hand moves along the shaft a little slower than Tsukishima would’ve liked, not quite in time with the measured, powerful thrusts — is that on purpose? Tsukishima’s fidgeting, his hands are looking for something to grab onto, but can’t find a support, and that’s when he bites his lip painfully and moans — moans without being afraid of being overheard by the neighbors.

“Come over here.” Kuroo, still in him, pulls Tsukishima towards himself by his elbow.

Now Tsukishima’s sitting so firmly on his dick he wants to scream from the sensation.

“Don’t hold me like this, you’re in the way,” he exhales into Kuroo’s ear and bites down hard. Tsukishima smears a kiss along his cheekbone and covers Kuroo’s mouth with his own. Kuroo takes back the initiative and is practically fucking Tsukishima’s mouth with his tongue, but then Tsukishima pulls away.

“What?” Kuroo asks dazedly, and then drops lower and starts sucking on Tsukishima’s shoulder.

Tsukishima tries to kneel and start moving, but Kuroo’s holding him in a steel grip, like he’s underscoring who’s in charge here. So he just pushes Kuroo forcefully and knocks him onto his back.

Shamelessly taking advantage of Kuroo’s weakening hold, Tsukishima stands slightly and sits back on Kuroo’s dick. There are no words. Turning off his brain entirely, he pushes back in short, ragged movements, trying to find the right angle. Kuroo tightens his hold around Tsukishima’s waist and presses down, forcing him to go lower, penetrate deeper.

The pleasure becomes so acute, piercing every inch of him through to his fingertips. Tsukishima moves in a frenzied rhythm, pressing his hand into Kuroo’s chest, and watches his face out of the corner of his eye. Kuroo is intently, studiously staring back from under his eyelashes, and Tsukishima can’t do anything about his embarrassment. Here, now, in front of this person he’s bending over, moaning and fucking with all his might, powerless to stop.

“Stop that,” he exhales.

“What?” Kuroo’s genuinely surprised, squeezing Tsukishima’s ass forcefully.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like I can,” Kuroo answers hoarsely, and covers Tsukishima’s hand, sliding up and down Tsukishima’s dick, with his own.

They finish at different times, first Tsukishima, grinding his teeth, and then Kuroo, with a stupid “Oh, that’s allowed now?” and drunken laughter. The orgasm drives him to total mindlessness, and Tsukishima just stretches out on the floor. Next to him Kuroo ties up the condom and throws it aside. He’s breathing heavily, chest heaving, forehead glistening with sweat.

The exhaustion is crippling; Tsukishima would pass out right here on the floor if he didn’t have standards and a lingering suspicion that he might still get shot. And nevertheless, when he forces himself to stand up from the carpeting, a softened Kuroo turns to look at him. “Shower?”

Tsukishima nods.

Kuroo lazily, almost sleepily smirks. “Can I join?”

Tsukishima snorts. “We haven’t slept in over a day, barely survived a firefight two hours ago, and you’re not seventeen. I doubt you could last a second round.”

“Actually, I just want to shower too.” Kuroo drags his fingers along his arm. And then pushes himself up with his elbow, cautiously holding his other arm. Tsukishima notices silently that the arm must’ve started hurting again. Damn, after all that he’d be lucky if the wound didn’t open up already. “But you can go first if you’re shy. I’ll just lie here and watch your bare ass parading around.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes and stands up with effort. But then Kuroo catches his neck and, before he can understand anything with his barely-functioning head, drags him down. And kisses him.

It’s not as passionate as it was less than ten minutes ago, even without tongue, just damp, hot touch. Tsukishima closes his eyes and answers. He has no idea what he’s doing, why and what this will all lead to, but — he answers.

***

What it all leads to is this.

Tsukishima’s squinting suspiciously as he pulls his t-shirt back on. Who knows how much he’s regretting leaving his luggage in the Service’s motel room. He misses his button-downs.

“Where are we going?” he asks again, finally putting his glasses back on. He doesn’t like how Kuroo’s smirking at him from the doorway of the bathroom.

He likes Kuroo’s answer even less. “What do you mean where? I’m taking you to meet the family, of course.”

***

“The Elder Sisters,” Kuroo says, “ever heard of them?”

But Tsukishima just turns the radio up a little.

Kuroo seems relaxed: he’s kicking back in his seat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and, most shocking of all, is silent most of the time. Tsukishima looks at his profile, all covered in bruises and cuts, at the left arm in a sling, which Tsukishima had shot himself, and then looks higher and spots his own hickey on Kuroo’s neck. Tsukishima’s cheeks feel hot, and he instantly turns away, staring at the gridlocked streets through the front window. And how did he get stuck in this mess?

They barely say a word to each other until they pull up to the Sister’s territory. But when the heavy metal barbed-wire-topped gates slide apart, Tsukishima finally says, “Is your bishop there?”

Kuroo raises his eyebrows expressively. “Well, yeah, why? Sudden urge to confess?”

“You usually confess to priests,” Tsukishima mutters, looking into the street they’ve arrived at. What is this, a den of organized prostitution? Although it’s unlikely they’re called that out loud. Well then, “Elder Sisters” it is.

“Don’t be pedantic.” Kuroo chuckles.

“I’m not being pedantic, I’m correcting you.”

“Pedant.”

“No. God, shut up!”

“And by the way, I know who people confess to, I’m actually a member of the clergy here. Wanna confess your sins and beg forgiveness?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Tsukishima turns towards him and asks, perplexed, “Did I not do that last night?”

And that bit of vulgarity was worth it to see Kuroo’s face at that moment.

“Tsu-ki-shi-ma!” He’s practically beating the steering wheel with his healthy hand. A little more and he’ll start honking. “You know how to make terrible jokes? Why didn’t you say so earlier! I thought you were hopeless!”

Tsukishima smiles and flips him off, and then changes the subject. “They’re going to want to shoot me when they see me.”

“Of course they’ll want to shoot you.” Kuroo nods approvingly, turning a corner. Tsukishima’s gaze lands on Kuroo’s hand and its bulging veins, confidently stretched across the steering wheel. Something in that turns Tsukishima on. “If you hadn’t put out I’d still want to shoot you too.”

Nope, Tsukishima’s not turned on after all. God, what’d he do to deserve this?

“Could we not raise this subject while we’re here?” Tsukishima can’t contain his irritation any longer, his glare practically burning a hole in Kuroo’s forehead.

Kuroo snorts. “What’re you, shy?”

“I just want to keep my personal life far away from the eyes of Indonesian gangsters. May I?”

“So I’m your personal life already?” Kuroo perks up immediately.

They brake next to one of the houses. There’s no one around, so Tsukishima reaches for him, puts a hand on Kuroo’s hip and smiles. “My personal offense.”

And then takes his gun and gets out of the car. The streets here are almost all identically turned out, with maroon roofs— practically impossible to tell apart. When Tsukishima gets out, Kuroo pulls the car up flush with the fence to leave space in the road, and then exits himself.

“Listen, here’s the thing,” he says, “give me my gun back.”

“Are you serious?” Tsukishima lifts the glock up to shoulder height and holds it by the barrel instead of the grip. “I already explained...”

It sounds almost like an excuse, which is why in his head a warning bell is ringing obnoxiously, reminding him that he means nothing to this guy whatsoever so he has no need to justify himself to Kuroo. Despite the sex.

Kuroo smiles, but his eyes are serious. He reaches his hand out. “You explained.” His voice sounds fairly harsh. “But give me the gun anyway.”

And Tsukishima understands the obvious implications: you’re so cool, I’m prepared to chase you all over town, but also you almost killed me twice so I can’t trust you with a weapon, sorry. Tsukishima remembers his expression at the automobile factory, jerks and stretches the gun handle forward, although his innate stubbornness and spite tell him not to. He ignores his impulses, but some kind of childish, irrational hurt prickles inside.

What the hell!

“There you a—” Bokuto, stepping out from around the corner on foot, freezes in place. Behind him Tsukishima sees another figure. “Wh... Dude! What the heck is this?!” He points at Tsukishima.

“I told Yaku I was bringing him.” Kuroo waves him off. “It’s all fine.”

There’s two of them: the energetically gesturing Bokuto, going through all of the stages between shock and displeasure, and another guy, as different from Bokuto as two people could possibly be. Bokuto is a giant colossus, reminiscent of a bear, and his companion is tall and slender, like a black streak on white tile. Bokuto’s face is wide, with large features, his companion has a narrow face with sharp cheekbones and attentive eyes scrutinizing Tsukishima.

“Are we not supposed to kill him?!” Bokuto continues.

“Oh, Bo, after the shit he pulled tonight we just can’t kill him.”

And Tsukishima barely restrains himself from strangling Kuroo. He remembers in time that while he reacts as usual it’ll all seem like Kuroo’s usual jokes. No one’ll even notice.

“Bro!” Bokuto presses his hands to his chest. “He seduced you!”

“We have a romance,” Kuroo assures him. Tsukishima stares at the fence. His willpower could raise the Titanic out of the Atlantic Ocean.

“Akaashi Keiji,” the guy accompanying Bokuto introduces himself quietly.

“Tsukishima Kei,” he answers just as quietly, although he’s sure that Akaashi knows everything already.

“He’s using you!” Bokuto exclaims indignantly.

“Don’t talk about him like that! He’s the bestest!” Kuroo exclaims dramatically.

He’ll kill them. Both. He’ll just call up the Cartel right now and give them up. Let those guys come over here and deal with it.

“I’m warning you, you can’t expect anything good from men like that!”

“What do you know about men!”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Akaashi says quietly. Tsukishima looks over at him in surprise. “For this.”

But Tsukishima’s not surprised by that.

“You are aware,” Tsukishima clarifies, while Bokuto’s moralizations about personal relationships are slowly turning into vulgarity, “that I left him in the clutches of the Sunrise Cartel and ran off?”

You know, just in case. Theoretically, since Kuroo’s everyone’s favorite and the local court jester here, they should hate Tsukishima passionately and wholeheartedly.

Akaashi sighs. “So basically leaving him to certain death.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re an ass just because!”

“Me? I’m an ass?! Listen, you...”

“My condolences for your misfortune.” Akaashi pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

It seems like there’s a light at the end of the tunnel: There is now a second person in Jakarta who appears to be basically normal.

“Why the hell are y’all yelling under people’s windows?!” Someone slams a door above the porch. Tsukishima looks up. Yaku has a bandaged arm and predictably dark expression. “Are you insane?”

“We’re not insane,” Kuroo snaps back. 

And Bokuto, who was ready to brawl with him three seconds ago, instantly backs him up. “Bro, why is he yelling at us?”

Kindergarten, insanity, Jakarta: Kuroo Tetsurou and Bokuto Koutarou.

After that Yaku, ignoring those two, looks over at Tsukishima and tsks. “The Bishop’s coming out now. Said not to shoot the kid.”

“What do you mean don’t shoot?” Bokuto complains, and Tsukishima wants to get back in the car and sit there until the end of his days. Or even better, drive back to the Citadel or even the Cartel so they’d finally kill him. But he understands perfectly well that at least until the end of all this stereoplate business he’s going to have to put up with this group.

The doors open again: the bishop of Java, Nekomata Yasufumi, looks exactly like his photos. While he descends the staircase, the hems of his vestments get caught on the steps slightly, and then he stops and says, “Tsukishima Kei.”

And Tsukishima finally exhales. In any case, he won’t have to run around the city trying to figure out what he’s supposed to do anymore. 

“Your cover was blown?”

“Had to leave.” He shrugs. “I wanted to obtain your support, bishop, but that was too risky. Did he contact you?”

“What kind of bullshit’s going on here?” Kuroo finally unfreezes. “I thought you were going to tell us we had to shoot him!”

“Shoot him?” Nekomata pretends to be horrified, looking over. “Who? Ukai’s assistant, sent here specifically by the man himself all the way from the States?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tsukishima switches to informal speech w/kuroo after the sex. this is noted in the original fic but impossible to communicate in english bc it's a garbage language  
> next chapter will be up faster and then we're in the homestretch babey


	18. Chapter 18

“Why are you all looking at me like that?” The bishop asks, unperturbed. “He came here to help me.”

“To help you?” Kuroo echoes, dumbfounded. “To help you do what? Kill me?”

They’re sitting inside the house now. Nekomata, Yaku, Tsukishima and Akaashi are sitting behind the table, in the center of which a glass pot of oolong tea is heating over several candles and a metal stand. Bokuto’s collapsed in a chair, while Kuroo and Nekomata’s assistant Naoi stay standing.

Honestly, after all the shit they’ve been through the setup looks comically mundane. Tsukishima squashes his desire to laugh hysterically and just rubs his brow. A flash of pain hits him, and he doesn’t even remember where and how he hurt his forehead. Maybe someone decked him. There was so much. Too much. He genuinely can’t remember.

“Why do you assume everything revolves around you?” Nekomata quirks a brow.

“No, hold up, okay? I’m only assuming this guy revolves around me. And right now he looks like a genuine attempt to get rid of me.”

Tsukishima blurts out, “You’re talking like I came here intending to kill you!” He even raises his voice, which he didn’t expect himself to do. He doesn’t like to lose his temper in public, but in front of him is Kuroo Tetsurou. Kuroo Tetsurou seems more like an attempt to get rid of Tsukishima’s emotional stability than anything else.

“Well you did almost kill me, wait for it, twice! Two times!”

“We’ve established this already,” Tsukishima almost hisses.

God, he’s so pissed. FIrst they kiss, then he gets punched in the face, then they shoot at each other, then they fuck, then they banter and now, here they are, arguing. Why couldn’t there be a logical progression?! He can’t keep up with this speed.

“We did,” Kuroo agrees. “But for some reason while we were establishing this I didn’t hear that you were, in fact, on our side.”

“What is wrong with you?” Tsukishima spits, tossing aside the last bit of rudeness.

“Guys, I understand you’re having this big drama over here, but, like.” Bokuto waves an arm to get their attention. “Bro, maybe not now. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.”

Furious at Kuroo’s behavior, Tsukishima leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s pointedly not looking at Kuroo — now he’s ashamed this all happened in front of witnesses. Who are they taking them for now? A couple that can’t decide their relationship status? What a joke.

Everyone’s silent for a bit. Even Yaku. Tsukishima, still furious, but no less observant because of it, hasn’t noticed him doing that before. Yaku sits and, judging by how anxiously he taps his fingers against his cast, desperately wants to smoke. He’s also casting surprised glances at the grumpy Kuroo, but not saying anything.

Tsukishima sighs. The fact that such behavior isn’t typical for Kuroo flatters him a little.

“But still, how did this happen?” Akaashi finally speaks up. He’s drinking tea in tiny sips and looks completely impressed.

Nekomata answers him. “Ikkei simply turned to trustworthy people he knew well, when he ended up in a difficult situation.”

“Trustworthy people meaning Tsukishima?” Yaku clarifies.

“To be more specific, Tsukishima’s family.” Nekomata looks around. “None of you heard?”

“There’s more of them?” Kuroo snorts, throwing his head back. “Wild.”

“Truthfully, I didn’t know either, until Ikkei told me. And that’s the secret of your success, I’m guessing?” He looks over at Tsukishima.

It feels like he’s talking about some kind of criminal magnates. Tsukishima, still not cooled off, straightens his glasses and shrugs. What else can he say to this. He personally is definitely not the secret to his family’s success.

“The Tsukishima family is a bunch of scoundrels, each and every one of them,” says Nekomata simply.

Tsukishima, who doesn’t like when his family gets raked over the coals, cringes. “Actually my grandpa was a math professor at Yale.”

“Before he started to swindle casinos.” Nekomata smiles. “I did my research.”

Of course he did. But Tsukishima realizes that it’s better not to interrupt a smiling Nekomata. Or any Nekomata, really.

“Like a family business?” Kuroo asks, more calmly now.

“In the realest sense of the word.” The bishop nods, taking a measured sip from his cup. “Our foreign guest’s mother is one of the best bank robbers in the world, made a lot of noise in Switzerland in the eighties. I even heard about that back then, but didn’t follow up. And his brother used to deal with counterfeit currency and was Ikkei’s own student. A very talented boy, he said.”

The “boy” in question is turning thirty eight in a month. And Tsukishima’s not planning on giving him anything for it, he can deal. He should be happy Tsukishima’s bringing  _ himself _ back from this hellish frying pan.

“And what did your brother do after that?”

Oh, what didn’t Akiteru do. When Tsukishima himself was thirteen, Akiteru had moved on to industrial espionage, and then to private stock scams, credit card fraud, he even managed to move up on the stock market. Until he started his last job hardly a year would go by before he’d switch to something new. Their mom always worried that he’d be the first member of their family to get caught by the feds. But it’s been fine for now.

Tsukishima remembers the Service, disappointedly. Looks like the first isn’t going to be Akiteru. Although, that was the plan all along, so why get upset now.

“He has... a lot of investments,” is all Tsukishima says, warming his hands against his cup. 

“That’s exactly why when Ikkei needed to leave the stereoplates and escape the country, he went to his most talented student.” Nekomata leans back in his chair. Tsukishima doesn’t even try to hide that he’s pleased to hear his brother get praised. “Especially since as I understand it, he knew that you were sent to the Secret Service after university,” he notices. Tsukishima nods. He’d heard from Akiteru occasionally that he’s in touch with the legendary Ukai Ikkei.

Although, until he got that phone call three weeks ago in Omaha, he didn’t know how that contact would reflect on him.

“Ikkei asked them for help. As I understand it, he was counting on getting the plates back through the service. What was the plan specifically?”

Tsukishima rubs his hands together. “When Akiteru called me and explained the situation, we had to act fast. The problem was — and still is — how to get the plates out of the country, which is exactly why they brought me in. It would’ve been impossible to do it quickly by sea or by air. Plus, information about activity in Jakarta started appearing in the Service’s internal reports — they were assembling a group to verify their authenticity, and that seriously complicated matters. We decided that the optimal solution would be undercover.” He sighs. “Used a method as old as time — merging information. They started collecting a group from the region, and we doctored the orders sent to the squad leader, writing me into it. I flew out of the States on the twenty fifth, met with the group in the airport here. The status of agent allowed me to fly without observation and bring Ukai’s fakes with me. And only that status could’ve afforded me to bring the originals out.”

If everything didn’t go straight to Hell immediately.

“And where the fuck were those originals this whole time?” Yaku asks darkly. 

Tsukishima reluctantly looks over everyone. Of course they’ll be mad. Hardly anyone likes to learn they’d been led around by the nose this whole time.

On the other hand, echoes of his pride are gnawing at him.

“In a locker at the Soekarno-Hatta airport,” he answers.

Kuroo rubs his forehead. “You hid them right after you grabbed them from me in the port?”

Tsukishima nods. “The service had a clear schedule: we move out the same day we get the plates. Agent Sugawara shouldn’t have had enough time to conduct a close inspection.” He sighs. “I would’ve grabbed the real plates out of the airport before takeoff and returned them to the States. No problems.”

“They would’ve found out,” Akaashi notices. “Sooner or later. Wouldn’t that have jeopardized your safety in America?”

Tsukishima decides to let this question go unanswered. He’s too tired in general and too tired for someone to dig deeper than he’s telling.

“But the Japanese gang got involved,” Yaku grumbles and starts tapping on his cast more intensely.

“The Japanese police taskforce for controlling drug trafficking,” Tsukishima corrects him.

And everyone turns to look at him.

“What?” Kuroo asks.

“What?!” Yaku echoes him.

Tsukishima looks around them and sighs again — how many times today?

And he has to tell them. From the moment Sugawara suspected something was off to lieutenant Sawamura’s report about the meeting between the Church and the Cartel.

“Great!” Kuroo groans, when Tsukishima finishes. “Just fantastic! No, seriously, who hasn’t shown up in this city yet? It seems like everyone’s showed up to this shindig!”

“Can we not,” Yaku requests, sliding down his chair. Tsukishima genuinely wants to take pity on him and let him go smoke.

“No, hold up, let me speak!”

“Shut up.”

“Why do I have to be quiet when all this is going on?! So, Tsukishima isn’t a straightlaced government agent, and is in fact working for Ukai.” Tsukishima doesn’t even bother correcting him to say he’s helping Ukai, and just puts his head in his hand. He’s insanely tired, but now, when Kuroo’s attacking someone else, it’s almost soothing. “And the Japanese aren’t Japanese!”

“They are Japanese, though.”

“You know what I’m trying to say! What next? Bokuto likes making macrame, you’re a secret health nut? What other betrayals await me in this life?”

“Betrayals aren’t waiting for you, decisive actions are,” Nekomata underscores.

Everyone grows noticeably somber from his tone, and Tsukishima lifts his head up from his arm. If the rollercoaster of his time in the city has taught him anything (other than the importance of "run" in "hit and run"), it's that a tone like that means the polar opposite of "You can go home now."

“Akaashi.” Nekomata nods. “Tell them.”

“After Kuroo and Tsukishima caused damage to and left the Citadel’s club” — Akaashi carefully folds the cloth napkin in front of him — “the bishop asked me to conduct a search in the Cartel. They have the plates.”

Welp, there you go. No good news.

“The originals this time?” Yaku clarifies.

“Exactly,” Akaashi answers.

“And according to my information...” Akaashi answers.

“Washijou is determined to fly out of the country with them tomorrow afternoon,” Akaashi answers.

Yaku doesn’t even curse. He lifts his healthy arm up in a gesture of “Fuck this, I’m out” and actually goes for a smoke, loudly pushing his chair out of the way.

Kuroo watches Akaashi from under his bangs with an expression conveying all of his “Why do you do this to me”s and sad tragic sighs. Thankfully, he doesn’t voice them out loud.

Bokuto Koutarou twists into his windbreaker like he’s wrapping himself into a cocoon.

“Do we have a plan?” Tsukishima asks, tortured, deciding to be the only adult in the room. “Because if we don’t, we need to come up with one. We won’t be able to reach them outside the country.”

On the clock: seven in the morning.

The only thing Tsukishima wants is to sleep, but Washijou Tanji won’t even let him do that.

At least someone else lets him.

Nekomata gets up from his chair, making some kind of gesture at Naoi with his fingers. He nods and pulls out of the pocket of his cassock — aren’t they hot in those, Tsukishima thinks suddenly — a large gold ring with a big shiny emblem and hands it to the bishop. He holds it in his long wrinkled hand for a few seconds, and then throws it in the direction of the doorway.

Kuroo catches it handily, and then makes a surprised face. “This is...”

“Yes.” Nekomata nods. “All of you” — he looks around — “will get some sleep. I can’t look at you anymore. In five hours we’ll meet at the main house, discuss the situation. And you,” — he turns to Kuroo. “Will go to the ruins and open it. Take everything there is and come back.”

“And then I can sleep?” Kuroo asks suspiciously.

“You had all night.” Nekomata raises his eyebrows, walking past. “You should’ve slept then.”

Tsukishima catches up to him by the car.

Kuroo looks tired, there’s stubble peeking out of his face; he’s standing, one leg through the door of the car, and trying to tie his shoelaces with one hand. Judging by his unfocused gaze, it’s not going very well.

Well, no. Tsukishima did not sign up for this. He’s not going to help Kuroo tie his shoes.

He can, however, go and put his arm on the side of the car, which gleams under the morning sun. And say, “Am I riding with you?”

Kuroo jerks his head up. There’s no surprise in his face, it’s like he was expecting something similar. He straightens up, and Tsukishima’s half-expecting a suggestion to tie Kuroo’s shoes for him, but instead Kuroo just asks him to wait while he pulls the car off the curb.

“We’re going to the Church?” Tsukishima asks, getting into the car. Kuroo hmms affirmatively, and the conversation doesn’t go at all how Tsukishima’d imagined it would. As in, not at all.

Tsukishima frowns barely noticeably, turning away towards his window, but occasionally casts glum looks at the thoughtful and untalkative Kuroo.

They drive to the Church in silence.

***

There really are only ruins left of the building. They park right by where there used to be steps: the stone foundation remains, although not all of it, riddled with explosions, but the roof and wooden additions had all collapsed and burned.

A sad view.

If you didn’t know this was a stopping point for heroin traffic.

But when Tsukishima turns around, he sees Kuroo poking through the most intact areas, and his face is still as thoughtful as it was in the car. Tsukishima suddenly decides to ask, “How did you start working for the Church?”

He’s not interested in the dry lines of Kuroo’s file, he knows them by heart. He wants to hear what Kuroo will tell him himself.

“I ended up here as a kid,” Kuroo admits, poking at some rock. Tsukishima, busy making sure he doesn’t trip over pieces of burned roof, turns to look at him. “Well, you know.” He pauses. “Indonesian orphanages are shitty places. Didn’t last very long in there, ran away. Started working as a courier, transporting hashish for a small local gang... They crossed paths with the old man, the guys left me, and I was like, welp. Hi, Church of Lascano. Time to say goodbye to this world.”

“And he hired you?” Tsukishima’s not surprised. The bishop likes to raise his employees from a young age. Most likely even at eighteen Kuroo Tetsurou would’ve been an... unusual kid. He’d had to grow into this thing somehow.

“Nah, first he tried to shoot me.” Kuroo laughs, and his laughter scatters above the rubble of the Church, pushed by the wind. “And when he couldn’t, then he hired me.”

Logical. Tsukishima wouldn’t expect the clergy here to take on initiates any other way.

Kuroo hops over the remains of some wall and looks around this postapocalyptic landscape. Tsukishima wasn’t prepared to feel shame, but feels it anyway.

“And you?” Kuroo asks, heading towards the northwest.

He’s stepping on piles of rocks that crumble under his feet, and at the top of one turns around and repeats, “What about you?”

Tsukishima doesn’t like to talk about himself, but it seems impolite to ask a question and refuse to answer the same one. So while Kuroo navigates forward, dodging between protruding beams, he decides to go around. The rocks flew far apart. There are shards of wall and tile visible in the dry orange grass.

It seems to Tsukishima that they’re having something like a heart-to-heart, if they’re both capable of something like that, but then Kuroo asks another leading question.

“Is Tsukishima Kei at least your real name?” And although his voice is like pulling the collapsed door to one side is more important than hearing the answer, Tsukishima understands: he’s still not trusted, he’s still being doubted.

“Yes,” he answers simply.

The door seems thick, from dark wood, a typical characteristic for a cathedral. Kuroo pulls at it with both hands at first, then hisses and just pulls with the one healthy arm.

“It’s all true,” Tsukishima says, cutting through the path along the ruins to Kuroo. “All of it. Stanford.” He takes a step. “Libra.” A bullet casing slips out from under his feet and falls down with a thud between the rocks. “Problems with the lie detector.”

“Well now I can see where those came from.” Kuroo pushes his bangs back.

Tsukishima pushes away a rock holding the door in place, and Kuroo removes the door in one move. Doesn’t say thank you, but he doesn’t need to. Under the door are unharmed wooden steps leading into a basement.

They ask their questions simultaneously:

“How’s your arm?” Tsukishima’s not rushing to descend; he checks how sturdy the piece of rooftop next to him is and leans against it.

“Are you planning to go back to America?” Kuroo goes down the stairs, clattering the ring of keys he borrowed from the bishop and playing with the signet ring. Which also seems to be serving as some kind of key.

Both of them, judging by the silence, freeze in place. Tsukishima with his strange demonstration of care, Kuroo with whatever the fuck that question meant.

“My arm? It’ll be fine,” says the man who barely managed to tie his shoes today.

Either he’s throwing people apart in a crowd like kittens, or he can’t lift anything normally. It’s probably a matter of adrenaline and interest. Last night’s injury barely bothered him.

“So what?” he yells from the basement.

The cliff opens up to a view of the Javan sea. The sun rising over the water isn’t hypnotic. Tsukishima just squints and blinks with dry eyes. What’s Kuroo so curious about?

Oh yeah.

God.

“Most likely,” Tsukishima answers. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, there he is!” Kuroo Tetsurou exclaims. “Found him. So like, well, I’m thinking, we could have... something work out?”

“Have something work out?” Tsukishima repeats. “We’re either trying to kill each other or...” He spreads his arms.

Or. And it’s not even about the sex.

The desire to punch Kuroo Tetsurou went hand in hand with the desire to hold his undivided attention — Tsukishima remembered that horror half steeped in the uncontrollable, unpredictable satisfaction from the fact that Kuroo had followed his tracks in the factory. Tsukishima caught himself noticing that the pauses between their verbal sparring were filled with impatience anticipating new ones. Tsukishima remembered himself, tired of stupid come-ons and listening intently, trying to catch more of them.

“What’re you talking about, we have a perfectly healthy dynamic, in my opinion.” Kuroo Tetsurou appears with a small black crate the size of an old square monitor in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. “Hey, are you driving? Because I’d like a drink.”

“Didn’t that old lady feed you half a box of antibiotics before we left?” Tsukishima frowns. Kuroo yelps. Is he a complete moron?

Although yeah. What kind of nonsense is he asking.

“You’re just avoiding the subject.” Kuroo points the bottle at him accusingly, sitting down on the remains of a stone pedestal. Looks like it’s specifically relationship gossip that got him talking. Judging by the information Tsukishima received in pieces during the shootout at the Citadel, Kuroo wasn’t particularly monogamous. Although, of course, Oikawa Tooru didn’t seem to be particularly trustworthy himself. Who the fuck knows what kind of relationship those two used to have. “Why did you sleep with me?”

And opens the bottle with — the same? Or a different one? — a pocket knife.

The first thing Tsukishima does is grab the bottle despite Kuroo’s indignant protests.

The second thing is, he says, “You sound like a sixteen year old girl, you know that, right?” He rolls his eyes and jerks his arm away when Kuroo reaches for the bottle. “How often do you even ask someone ‘why did you sleep with me’?”

“This is actually the first time.” Kuroo smirks. The answer suddenly hits hard in Tsukishima’s chest, so he calms down and lowers the hand holding the bottle. “Because the answer is usually obvious — I’m a hottie.”

They’re sitting alone in the ruins of the old Church, while the sky above the city slowly lightens. Tsukishima stares at the wine — old, dusty, French — in his hand. Almost romantic.

“How are you imagining this? You don’t know me at all,” Tsukishima sighs finally, shifting his gaze to the beams and rocks covered in a blanket of black ashes. “You wanted to kill me two days ago.”

Kuroo snorts. “Drink.” And then adds, “Do I have to imagine this somehow? Can’t I just be a pretty boy who likes another pretty boy?”

Tsukishima grabs the bottle by the neck and takes a long drink.

“I like how you’re as bitter as an aspirin tablet.” What is that, a compliment? “And stuffy. And irritating — because you, four-eyes, are super irritating.”

Tsukishima stares at him with an expression of “You sure you’re not confusing anything here?” and drinks more of the wine. Red, semi-sweet.

“You have amazingly long legs,” Kuroo continues to list, looking straight at him, and Tsukishima prefers to sip the wine, waiting for this to end and he can breathe freely again. “And fantastically erotic German. And you constantly hit me on the ears with shit, and talk back and carry your ego tied up in a bow so no one could hurt it.” Oh, okay, we’re on the insults now. “And I definitely,” — he finally stands up from the rock and, Tsukishima is sure, his entire ass is covered in soot now, this moron, — “definitely,” — he takes a few steps towards Tsukishima — “am crazy for all of it.”

Tsukishima spends several long seconds looking at Kuroo from the top down — what is their height difference, two, three centimeters? — and then says, “I...” Fine, there’s no one to lie to here. “... I like you, but I don’t like making decisions without thinking about the consequences.”

Kuroo slides a hand along Tsukishima’s stomach, stopping at his belt. The gesture turns out intimate, but not in a sexual way. Kuroo strokes his ribs when he says, “Your main problem is, you think too much.”

Tsukishima gets irritated. “Why do we even have to discuss all this right now? We’re not in a superhero film, where this is our last conversation before we die.”

“Listen,” Kuroo practically lights up as he says, “but if we were superheroes—”

“No.”

“Come on, wait...” He steals the bottle and takes a sip despite the risk.

Tsukishima’s supposed to let him drive after this? Or did he miss one of the rules of living in Jakarta? It’s unlikely anyone here’s worried about how drunk you are when you drive. Except Tsukishima. Tsukishima does not want to be in a car driven by a tired and drunk Kuroo Tetsurou. It’d be easier to go and lie down way over there: Tsukishima squints at the church’s cemetery a dozen yards away. That’s where clergy members are usually buried, but here there might be some enemies buried under false names.

And Tsukishima feels like he will unbelievably regret his next words. Desperately pretending to be absorbed by the surrounding landscape, he asks, “Marvel or DC?”

Kuroo blinks in surprise. His hand freezes in the air, the bottle still halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“I’m asking,” Tsukishima repeats, “Are the superheroes Marvel or DC?”

***

In the evening, everyone ends up in the main house — the Mistress’s house, but Tsukishima’s still not sure how to interpret that because the wrong thing keeps getting in his head.

They end up not having any time for a short daytime rest due to Jakartan traffic jams, so they pull up straight there, park and go upstairs, led by two young women in traditional clothing.

Inside would’ve been cramped, if the room wasn’t so huge.

Tsukishima sees Yaku on a chair, Haiba crouching next to him — the only way to be shorter than Yaku, evidently, and asking him something; sees Shirofuku, eating yogurt, Konoha next to her and an unfamiliar woman with a long light brown ponytail; sees Yamamoto, the church deacon, Kai and a guy next to him who he hasn’t seen in person but recognizes from his file— Inuoka. Bokuto and Akaashi sit at the table. He recognizes with surprise the person responsible for all his problems in the corner of the room — Daishou.

Nekomata and Naoi turn to look at them when they walk in.

“And there’s our Romeo and Juliet,” Konoha drawls, and Shirofuku starts laughing with her mouth full of yogurt.

Tsukishima smiles the most polite smile in his arsenal of smiles-to-drive-them-to-insanity and answers, “Then you’ll be Mercutio.”

Kuroo snorts. Shirofuku laughs again.

“What’s wrong with Mercutio?” Konoha asks her suspiciously.

Shirofuku, swallowing the yogurt and getting another spoonful, answers cheerfully. “Nothing except for the fact that he dies first.”

Nekomata quietly taps his teacup with a thin silver spoon. Everyone quiets. In the room — the main living room of this house, apparently — is the weighty silence of nearly fifteen people suddenly dropping their conversations.

“Let’s discuss,” Nekomata says quietly, his voice audible in every corner of the room nevertheless, “our... problem for tomorrow.”

Yaku asks first. “Do we have Washijou’s planned route?”

Akaashi answers him. With his pale face and ink-dark hair he looks like he’s either slept enough for years to come or, conversely, hasn’t slept for the last few years. He puts his phone aside and says, “We don’t have a specific route, we can only make inferences. It’s reliably known that he’ll be flying out of Soekarno-Hatta.”

“We need a plan?” Kai assumes, running a hand along his shaved head. That’s when Tsukishima realizes what was unsettling him so much: despite the fact that Yaku was the only one hurt, none of the clergymen were wearing their cassocks. “Kuroo, plans are your kinda thing, no?”

Kuroo slowly walks around the table and, stopping at the large-scale map of the city, stands over it for a few seconds.

And then says, “Well, what I can tell you guys...”

And smiles. “... is it’s time to start the game.”

“Nice phrase,” Yaku says, cutting off the pathos, “but what does it mean?”

Kuroo, not at all hurt by this, simply shrugs — and then winces slightly. “It’s time...”

“...To finish this shit,” Bokuto suddenly picks up. Kuroo salutes him with two fingers next to his forehead.

“That is exactly what I meant by that phrase. Fuck plans,” he says suddenly harshly, and Bokuto grins, “fuck complicated combinations. We have one winning tactic. What’s that, Bokuto?”

“To arrive,” Bokuto announces in a suddenly dramatic voice, and Tsukishima, having sat down at the table, looks up at him. His voice is frighteningly low and clear as he concludes, “and destroy.”

They’re standing at opposite sides of the table, and Tsukishima suddenly feels the tension. It appears when he looks at those two, and comes through his fingers in short tremors.

“Exactly,” Kuroo puts his healthy hand on his hip. “Why bother searching for the featured characters if they’re going to come to us themselves — straight to the airport?”

“In full force.” Bokuto pokes a point in northwest Jakarta on the map. “And we won’t have to run around looking for them all over town.”

“Yeah, we know there’s a fuckton of them.”

“And that they all have cannons at the ready.”

“Who cares?” Kuroo waves a hand. “For each one of their guns we’ll bring an arsenal.”

“You are incredibly self-confident here,” Yaku concludes, impressed. Tsukishima glances at him: despite the slightly playful tone, there isn’t a drop of lightheartedness in Kuroo’s voice.

Kuroo’s voice sounds like all this is unsettling him.

“Of course, why shouldn’t I be?” He smiles. “We’re not going to keep playing shout-insults-and-run-away with these guys.”

Bokuto mirrors his smile. “We’re planning to end them.”

Tsukishima catches the expression Akaashi’s directing at Bokuto. And he’d love to say that Akaashi’s face mirrors his own, that Akaashi is also slightly uneasy, that he’s also a little uncomfortable with this but — he sees nothing of the sort.

In Akaashi’s expression, Tsukishima sees admiration.

“There’ll be a whole concert hall’s worth of people...”

“...and we love to make a show.”

“Oh, we’re pros at that,” Bokuto says, sounding like a predator, a giant carnivorous bird preparing to grab its prey with its claws mid-flight. Tsukishima notices for the first time how unnaturally amber his eyes are — eerie, yellow, barely blinking.

“First class,” Kuroo agrees. And then looks at Yaku. “You understand there’s only one choice here: either we get them, or they get us?”

“Don’t patronize me,” Yaku snaps.

But Kuroo continues. “No more running.” Looks at him. “No more hide-and-seek.”

“Only thing left is to attack,” Bokuto summarizes. “And if they bring their monsters...”

“Then we’ll bring” — Kuroo smiles — “Yaku and Bokuto.”

“Fucking suck-ups, look at them,” Yaku hisses, but Tsukishima notices he looks pleased.

Kuroo, having convinced his main skeptic, turns to everyone else: “We’re gonna go head to head.”

Bokuto picks up with, “Just let them try to take precautions against a direct collision.”

“No more wickedly clever plans.” Kuroo bares his teeth in a snarl.

And that snarl promises nothing good for Washijou Tanji.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jamie untangled a very confusing sentence which was very confusing in the original also and for that I owe them my life  
> next chapter is more than twice as long as this one and also the last Chapter (chapter 20's an epilogue) so it's going to take...like a week? maybe more? I'm very excited tho we're almost there


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double-upload! there's an epilogue right after this

Tsukishima doesn’t like the paternal glance Kuroo gives first to Shirofuku, then to Tsukishima himself, and finally Bokuto.

Yaku flicks his lighter on. The orange glow of the flame on his face melts into the light of the rising sun. On the clock — almost six in the morning. Yaku lights up glumly and, exhaling smoke, says, as soon as Kuroo opens his mouth, “Not subject to appeal.” Cutting him off before he speaks.

“My words have a grain of reason to them,” Kuroo snorts presumptuously, bending his head to one side.

“You have a high opinion of yourself,” Shirofuku says, with such palpable subtext to her words it’s almost not even funny.

Tsukishima doesn’t blink. The hours before noon were not made for positive emotions. He rubs his eyes under his glasses, and when he opens them, nothing changes to anything deeply offensive.

“Let’s assume I agree that Tsukishima should ride with Bokuto.”

Like hell you wouldn’t agree, if Nekomata said, “If you, boy, are planning on riding with us, you’ll go in the most heavily armored vehicle.”

Bokuto unconsciously takes Tsukishima through the whole spectrum of emotions from horror to surprise. Yaku says he has suicidal tendencies mixed in with the heroism of a small guerilla army in the forests of South America. And that an armored vehicle is great, but only up to the point where Bokuto decides to use it to run through a wall. In short, brace yourself, it’ll be fun.

“But why do I have to go with” — Kuroo glances at Shirofuku — “her?”

“Techncally you’re not just going with her, but also with Suzumeda.” Yaku throws in an entirely useless argument. Judging by Kuroo’s face, the aforementioned Suzumeda does not save this situation.

The plan is so simple it’s hard to even call it a plan: three cars head towards the Sunrise Cartel’s headquarters in Tangerang, one to the airport. Yamamoto and Yaku in the first Church Brabus, Kuroo and the ladies in the second, Tsukishima and Bokuto in a Hummer Alpha, military grade. Tsukishima’s not sure about this suicidal showiness: the whole city knows what the Church drives. Just like how the whole city knows what the guy who destroyed Hamaima Tower to its foundation drives. Maybe Tsukishima should draw a target on his chest too?

Konoha, Akaashi and Inuoka are supposed to head to the airport on a smaller Hummer to report on the situation live and, if necessary, offer support from inside. Tsukishima doesn’t want to imagine that “if necessary”, but he understands the importance of backup plans for every letter of the alphabet.

Yaku with furrowed brows looks about five years older--- with a cigarette, ten more years, and yeah, now you could say he’s thirty two.

“So, we get to Washijou’s home outside the city” — the local headquarters of the Cartel — “and wait for him to head out,” he says.

“Why are you ignoring me?” Kuroo raises his eyebrows, perplexed.

Akaashi looks at Kuroo with the expression of a profoundly tired man. In these moments Tsukishima’s ashamed that there’s anything connecting them to Kuroo at all.

Who even is this? First time I’m seeing him.

“Washijou won’t be alone, he’ll have his detail with him. In any case, look to the black Mercedes Maybach.”

“Imagine if Washijou decides to take a silver Timor instead of a Mercedes,” Bokuto inserts, with an enlightened look on his face.

As can be expected, Kuroo continues. “Imagine if he takes four silver Timors instead of one.” Tsukishima doesn’t even know what they’re talking about anymore.

“And in each of those silver Timors there’s four Washijous,” Bokuto adds.

He and Kuroo look at each other for a few seconds, and then slap each other with a high-five, in sync with Yaku smacking himself in the forehead.

“And one last thing: we’re using a shared comm line again, so don’t clog the feed.”

Two more people appear from behind the fence — Nekomata and his eternal bodyguard Naoi. In the bishop’s arms is that same crate Kuroo pulled out of the basement of the destroyed Church. He does a ceremonious hand gesture, and the clergymen — everyone except the fired Kuroo, in their cassocks again — come closer.

When he opens the crate, Tsukishima sees...

“Wine?” He can’t believe it. He turns his head to Shirofuku, leaning back against the car trunk and sucking on a lollipop. “Did he send us to the ruins for some bottles of wine?”

“It’s Nekomata.” She rolls her eyes. “What’d you expect? Old alcoholic.”

“They’ll probably take communion,” the girl with a ponytail suggests shyly.

Suzumeda, sniper, the newest and youngest member of Bokuto’s team, as Tsukishima was told.

“Kuroo, you come here too,” Nekomata orders quietly.

Kuroo turns away from his conversation with Bokuto and goes to the clergymen, gathered in a semicircle. In the half-light of dawn the situation seems almost unreal.

Naoi passes around glasses and pulls out a knife to open the bottles with. When he raises one of them, Shirofuku leans up on her elbows and whistles. “Oh! Well in that case, I understand. That tracks.”

Tsukishima glances at her, uncomprehending, fixes his glasses. “Care to explain?”

“Well, if I’m not mistaken, and I’m not usually mistaken in these things, then the crate had Romanée-Conti.” This tells Tsukishima nothing. “Burgundy, ‘34 vintage. Almost two hundred thousand dollars a bottle, collectible. Damn, old man, breaking that shit out now!”

Tsukishima is standing at dawn at the exit to the prostitution quarter, where a drug-dealing bishop is conducting mass with one of the most expensive wines in the world.

You couldn’t make this up if you tried.

Nekomata meanwhile raises his glass. The priests, talking amongst themselves until then, quiet. Yaku throws out his cigarette butt and grinds it into the ground with his foot. One of his sleeves is cut off to fit his cast, and he holds the glass with the other hand.

“The sacrament,” Nekomata declares loudly, “fills with God's grace and prevents the return of the evil spirit, exiled by repentance, into the soul. So let us perform the sacrament in which we partake of the wine as the Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ for the remission of sins and for eternal life! And say the words of the Lord,” he finishes in his soft voice.

Everyone raises their glasses and starts, in order, to speak.

“Verily, verily, I say unto you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of man and drink his blood...”

“...you will not have life in yourself...”

“...He who eats My Flesh...”

“... and drinks My Blood...”

“...has eternal life...” Kuroo continues.

“...and I will raise him up on the last day...” and even Haiba!

“...for My Flesh truly is food, and My Blood truly is drink...” 

“He who eats My Flesh and drinks My Blood abides in Me, and I in him!” Yaku finishes.

And they drink it all.

“This is the craziest town I’ve ever been in,” Tsukishima finally admits out loud, remembering this image.

Shirofuku looks at him slightly condescendingly. “And are these guys the craziest priests you’ve ever met?”

“And the fakest. I have no more faith in religious institutions.”

“Listen,” Bokuto exclaims indignantly. “Do y’all wanna share with us or what?”

Shirofuku backs him up. “We’re also going to risk our butts for your sake!”

The bishop looks them over mockingly. “What are you, righteous Christians?”

“Oh, only righteous Christians drink like that? Then I don’t know why y’all are drinking, guys!”

Everyone laughs. The atmosphere is friendly, but businesslike. The expectation of action hangs in the air. The cars are parked outside the borders of Raandu, and the only thing left is to wait.

Finally, Yaku looks at the clock, nods and loudly says, “It’s time. Akaashi, Sou, Konoha, start for the airport. Everyone else — in twenty minutes to Tangerang.”

Konoha jumps off the bumper of the Hummer — the one they’re driving, Bokuto’s monster is parked to the side— and stretches his shoulders and neck. “Let’s go!”

They go.

***

“So, Guadalajara,” Bokuto starts for the third time. “2014, we have a giant suitcase of moolah and a painting of a chick with her titties out. I mean a girl. Well, a woman.”

“Lady,” Kuroo suggests through the mic.

“Yeah, with a lady, basically.” Bokuto nods eloquently. “With her titties out.”

Tsukishima slides helplessly down in his seat.

“This isn’t a story about fine art, in case you’re wondering,” Kuroo drawls. “It’s a story about how Bokuto caught Akaashi stealing a painting from his apartment and just gave it to him as a gift.”

Sitting in a massive — seriously, cars are cars, but Tsukishima’s never been in an automobile like this before — Hummer, Tsukishima’s still anxious. Akiteru made the bishop promise over a phone call that Tsukishima will be safe — and Tsukishima hasn’t felt this ashamed in a long time. His brother obviously thinks he’s still fourteen — but still insisted he go. And then they put him in a military Hummer. Read — a tank. With another tank inside.

“Bro!” The aforementioned tank cheerfully exclaims into the mic. “Don’t skip to the end, that’s no fun!”

And in Tsukishima’s head it still doesn’t quite make sense how one person can contain a harmless teddy bear, a merciless killing machine, a wonderful leader and commander and a generator of stupid jokes co-authored by Kuroo.

When they pull up to the Cartel’s base, Tsukishima kept looking despairingly at the clock: Washijou’s predicted departure time varied from eight in the morning to two in the afternoon. Which, upon recounting, meant up to six hours in one car with Bokuto Koutarou. Tsukishima doesn’t know what’s up in the other cars, but in Bokuto’s Hummer the headset broadcasting the speaker’s voice — usually Kuroo — echoes through the whole interior.

“Okay-okay, I’ll shut up.” God, nobody believes you.

“Nope, too late!” Bokuto taps a happy rhythm against the steering wheel. “No cool stories for you.”

“Thank God,” Yaku sighs somewhere over there.

Tsukishima echoes his heavy sigh and rubs the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his seat and attempting to stretch his legs as far forward as possible.

“You don’t like Bo’s cool stories?” Kuroo asks with exagerrated disappointment.

“Definitely no,” Yaku snorts. “Don’t forget, you’re on the air.”

Kuroo doesn’t listen. “Classic Yaku.” He’s quiet for a few seconds, but no one even has time to celebrate the occasion. “And you, Tsukishima?”

“And what, excuse me, do I have to do with this?” Tsukishima leans against the door with his shoulder.

“Listen... what are you wearing right now?”

In the headset is a chorus of complaints and Yaku soloing on his last nerve.

“You saw in the morning,” Tsukishima says, not quite understanding but dimly suspecting a trap.

Tsukishima wouldn’t say no to some wine right now. He can’t imagine how he’ll deal with all this sober.

“Uhuh, great, so like.. I slowly unbutton your shirt...”

And with this.

Bokuto bursts into laughter and slants a glance at Tsukishima. In the background of the headset, Yaku is swearing, Kuroo’s not laughing at all — unperturbed and determined — and next time Tsukishima will think thrice before sleeping with a guy 80% of whose jokes are this deeply embarrassing.

“Button after button...”

“Kuroo, just shut the fuck up,” Yaku grumbles.

“We do not want to hear this,” Shirofuku adds.

“Kiss your collarbones...”

Tsukishima is also unperturbed and determined. And right now he is unperturbedly burning from shame. God, there’s like fourteen people hooked up to this line, if Tsukishima knows how to count.

“Pull the shirt off your shoulders...”

Speaking of shoulders.

Tsukishima bends towards the mic and answers, “I slowly press on the wound in your shoulder.” And then in a completely calm voice adds, “You scream and stop talking.”

Kuroo is silent for a few seconds, and then emphatically stretches out, “Oowww-u-c-h.”

“I actually like this one, continue,” Yaku snickers.

Kuroo is instantly revived. “Yamamoto, make sure Yaku keeps his hands where you can see them.”

All of this happens while the Church’s car stands waiting right across the street from the entrance to Washijou Tanji’s luxurious home. It’s the first hour. They’d decided to get him in the city, because inside the compound may have all the Cartel’s soldiers waiting — and in sheer numbers they obviously win that round. And blowing up a house, like Hamaima Tower a few days earlier, wouldn’t fly — who knows how they’re transporting the stereoplates and how they’ll get hit.

“Anyone want another funny joke?” Kuroo’s voice asks in his headset.

Tsukishima tiredly leans his head against the glass.

After another hour he’s gone completely feral.

By his internal perception of the world, it feels like being poisoned. There’s physical poisoning, and intellectual poisoning. Either you eat expired food, or you encounter Bokuto and Kuroo in combination.

“And then after that I, like, tell them...” Bokuto explains enthusiastically to the quiet comm line. This is the third story in fifteen minutes. And then he suddenly cuts off, and his tone changes so much that Tsukishima startles. “They’re coming out. Get ready.”

“The commander’s awake!” Kuroo drawls, and you can hear him yawning on his end.

Bokuto Koutarou instantly returns to his usual state. “Hey, he never sleeps!”

There’s definitely movement to the right of them.

Huge iron gates — with two ten-foot towers on either side and several armed guards — slowly start moving apart. Soon the first Mercedes of the caravan rides out onto the road.

Shirofuku, rolling something over in her mouth — another candy, looks like — pulls it out of her mouth with a slurp and says, “Well, shit. The old man didn’t skimp on the security!”

Tsukishima counts fifteen automobiles and two motorcycles. Somewhere in there, according to Kuroo’s heartfelt assurances, is Tendou Satori, but everyone knew that without him anyway.

“After them,” Yaku orders shortly.

And they go.

The two main roads of Tangerang are six-lane, and, after navigating several narrow streets, the Cartel’s motorcade drives out onto one of those. Even here the sheer quantity of their vehicles is staggering. And they take up all three lanes in one direction, forming a neat five-row rectangle.

“Is Washijou’s car ahead or in the middle?” Yaku asks. It sounds like he’s smoking again.

“It’s a standard escort arrangement,” Bokuto answers. “Most likely he’s in the second car of the third row. The safest spot in the lineup.”

The Church cars avoid the traffic from behind and settle in almost directly behind the motorcade. It’s unlikely the Brabuses and Hummer would’ve gone unnoticed at all, but with this state of affairs — they’re also stretched across all the lanes — practically screams “Heyo! You weren’t expecting us, but we showed up!”

Bokuto and Kuroo weren’t kidding when they said they weren’t planning to hide in corners anymore.

This type of nagging tail is impossible to ignore. And, apparently, impossible to not comment on: a motorcycle separates from the Cartel’s motorcade and reduces speed.

Tsukishima recognizes its rider. It’s hard not to: show him another person in Jakarta with an explosion like that on his head — oh wait, never mind. Tendou Satori slows down and knocks on the window on Tsukishima’s side.

The traffic flow is so solid, there’s no time to look from side to side, the road is just so interesting.

Tendou Satori knocks more insistently.

“Jeez, what does he want?” Bokuto squints, and then says into the mic, “We’ve got Tendou Satori knocking on our window here.”

“Is that a metaphor?” Kuroo asks in an almost serious voice.

“Can we get rid of him somehow?” Tsukishima’s still trying not to look to the side.

Bokuto, without taking his eyes off the road, raises his hand— “One sec” — and reaches back, trying to reach something lying on the rug in front of the back seat. “Here.”

And hands him a gun. Tsukishima takes it automatically, acting on the “take what you’re given” reflex, and says almost as an aside, “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Can’t hurt.” Bokuto waves him off.

Tendou rolls his eyes reproachfully.

“What’d you do?” Kuroo’s voice sounds.

“Gave your pretty boy a Mauser.” Bokuto shrugs.

“Oh, nice.” Tsukishima is already suspecting some shit. “Get into Tendou’s good graces and shoot him point blank, you know how to do that.”

The stone flies into his yard and nails him in the head.

“How long are you going to remind me of that?”

“Oh nah, I’m not going to remind you of this ever again, but one day your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you’ll know the debt is paid.”

“Seriously? You’re quoting—”

“Don’t get distracted, over,” Kuroo cuts him off in the voice of a commander.

Tsukishima holds the gun in a weak grip and lowers the window. As a parting shot looks at Bokuto with an expression like “if I die, it’s your fault” and sees he only has one hand on the steering wheel. The other is holding a gun on his knee and tapping out a lively melody.

“Stall a little longer, why don’t you,” Tendou yells.

Warm air hits his face, Tsukishima pushes his glasses up with his wrist and asks, “What do you want?”

Tendou spends a few seconds staring at him, and then stretches his neck forward. “Oh, Bokuto, you’re alive.”

Bokuto doesn’t react: either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t want to, although the latter is highly unlikely.

“What car is Kuroo Tetsurou in?” Tendou asks, and yeah, of course, what else could possibly interest him, what interests anybody in Jakarta besides the stereoplates, how many times do they have to do this.

Tsukishima isn’t sure if he should answer, and when he’s not sure he usually asks for directions. Although in this situation he has to disguise it as a casual question. “He’s asking what car you’re in,” and then just in case calls, “Kuroo.”

“I got the ‘Kuroo’ part,” the other end of the line sighs. “Tell him we don’t fucking need him over here.”

Roger that.

“Kuroo says,” Tsukishima yells, almost sticking his head out the window, and Tendou leans closer to him, “that he doesn’t want to see you.”

“Tell him I’m offended,” Tendou yells twice, first normally and then directly in his ear.

“You have wounded him emotionally,” Tsukishima explains to the microphone.

“God, I don’t give a shit.” Kuroo tsks.

“You really are scum,” Shirofuku says disapprovingly, and Tsukishima can clearly picture her shaking her head in reproach.

“I’m disappointed in you, bro,” Bokuto adds. “You have no heart.”

Tsukishima mentally waves them off, bends towards Tendou and says, “He’s indifferent.” And then adds. “Middle car.”

Tendou — God, who would’ve thought — nods gratefully and pulls back, and the next time Tsukishima sees him he’s already driving between the Hummer and the Brabus on Bokuto’s side.

And then some Thing happens. In reality, the Thing has a name, but at first glance Tsukishima is so confused he can’t immediately understand exactly what he’s seeing. It seems like the road is being consumed by an anthill: black with green and white spots.

And then remembers where he’d seen that kind of color scheme before.

“We’ve got company,” Yaku notices sourly. “Like we needed these guys here.”

The highway is full of motorcycles.

“What?” Shirofuku reacts to the commotion. “Are these those leafies?” 

“Why do you call them leafies?” Suzumeda asks suddenly.

“Leafies, leafkins, leafboys, Grass-type Pokemon, however you want,” Shirofuku snorts. “They put some greenery on their emblem, slapped a skull on top and think that’ll do. I don’t like them. What do they want?”

Meanwhile the stream of bikers in mint-and-white denim vests with the emblem that so bothers Shirofuku is getting closer.

“What’re you looking at me for!” Kuroo’s voice comes through. “Do you think I invited them?... Fuck off, Tendou!... I don’t fucking know why they’re here! Listen, ask yourself that — as I recall it was your guys who destroyed their club last!”

“Tendou’s not happy?” Yaku asks.

“Yeah!” Kuroo barks. “What?... I’m not repeating that, go to Hell.”

“They’re both unhappy. Why are you so pissed?”

“I’m not pissed,” Kuroo’s voice grows whiny. “He’s just pissing me off. Get rid of him? And those guys while we’re at it.”

“As you can hear, they’re both unhappy. Ugh, close the window, I’m sick of him.”

While listening to this exciting dialogue about who isn’t enjoying whose presence, Tsukishima misses the moment when one of the bikers pulls up next to his window — they’d just caught up to the Church’s cars, and now the mint-and-white jackets riding metal horses surround them in a leisurely stream on all sides.

Tsukishima turns his head.

Oikawa Tooru is smiling cheerfully at him.

“Bokuto,” Tsukishima says immediately. “Excuse me, Bokuto, we have a problem.”

He, still listening to Kuroo’s whining, turns his head. And practically beams. “Oh! Kuroo, it’s your evil ex!”

Tsukishima clicks his tongue skeptically.

What’s interesting is Yaku is the first to react to this announcement. “What, Oikawa showed up? God, he’s a biker like I’m a pop star! Meaning he looks more like a pop star than a biker. What do they want?”

“Sacred tablets?” Kuroo suggests. “Compensation for the club? Compensation for emotional damages? A few bottles of Budweiser and a good group for a picnic?”

“Apologies for the Chilean girl,” Tsukishima blurts out. And, to prevent further commentary, snaps, “I’m not opening the window.”

Oikawa seems to read something in his expression, because he raises his hand and knocks on the glass. With a gun.

“I am definitely not opening the window.”

Bokuto leans over so Oikawa sees him. He does. And skeptically raises his eyebrows. Bokuto points at the car to the left of him — meaning, the one Kuroo’s riding in. And then ruffles his hair into an unimaginable mess. These attempts at mimicry seem to tell Oikawa what he wants to hear, and he brakes — then drives around their impossibly huge Hummer from behind.

“We sent him your way, Kuroo,” Bokuto chuckles.

“What am I, a pilgrimage site?” Kuroo grumbles. “I’ve got Tendou riding next to my window!”

“But my window’s free,” Shirofuku declares, and, judging by the sound, clicks the lock on it.

Yaku reappears. “Don’t even think about shooting him! First find out what they’re after — I think they might be here for the Cartel, not us.”

“Well, in any case they’re also going for the sacred ta—” Shirofuku hesitates, Kuroo snickers in a self-satisfied way “ — stereoplates, no?” 

“Talk first,” Yaku snaps.

Tsukishima’s not sure that people who’d had someone — a Chilean girl? — come between them can have a normal conversation. But believing in your allies is half the battle, so he stays silent, just glancing towards the car Kuroo’s driving with barely palpable fear.

“Maybe we should send them all to you, since you’re so smart?” Kuroo suggests melancholically.

“I bet they’ll start talking about the Argentinian chick after three exchanges!” Bokuto exclaims.

Argentinian?

“Hundred bucks on five exchanges,” Shirofuku giggles. “They’re serious people.”

“Four,” Yaku suddenly steps in. “And she was Colombian.”

Colombian?

“Oh, Tsukishima, you should see your face,” Bokuto laughs.

“You thought it was just one girl?” Shirofuku cackles. “There were so many.”

“And no one knows which one was the wedge that drove them apart,” Bokuto concludes.

“Tsukishima, don’t listen to them,” Kuroo bursts into the conversation. “That was just physical, but I have actual feelings for you! Oikawa, I’m not talking to you, fuck off. Tendou, don’t make room for him! You hate each other!”

Looks like all three of them hate each other equally. What a touching reciprocation of feelings.

“So,” Shirofuku says. “Guys. Looks like we’re gonna have a fight here soon.”

“Are you kidding me?! Put the cannon away!”

“Is Oikawa aiming at him?” Bokuto asks with a chuckle.

“Yup. Something about a Korean girl...” Suddenly there’s a deafening clap over the line, and Shirofuku and Kuroo start cursing practically in unison. “Shit! Suzumeda, give me my Mauser!”

“What happened?”

“What’s up over there?”

“This bastard shot into the car! Kuroo! Keep your exes under control!”

“Like anyone has ever been able to control Oikawa!” Kuroo fires back. Judging by the acoustics, he closed the window. There’s a knocking sound, and from the street — more clapping and metallic screeching. Someone’s firing at the closed windows, Tsukishima realizes.

And then hears a sound. First Tsukishima thinks that no, impossible, he’s imagining it, especially because Bokuto doesn’t react at all, and then turns around and sees it.

Meaning first Tsukishima doesn’t see that, but sees Hanamaki from the Citadel riding next to his window — why are they all so attracted to this stupid window, is it magnetic or something — and waving at him, and then — that.

Somewhere behind the swarm of black motorcycles a few silver cars, and then the sound repeats and turns out to be a barely audible over the gunfire and the rumble of the highway voice, boosted through a loudspeaker. “...ji. Give us Kuroo Tetsurou, and we won’t hurt anyone.”

God, what?

“Repeat: This is Futakuchi Kenji, give us Kuroo Tetsurou, and we won’t hurt anyone.”

“Kuroo!” Shirofuku’s indignant voice sounds.

“Kuroo, dammit,” Yaku grumbles.

“Who is it?” A quiet feminine voice asks.

“Date.”

“Who?” Tsukishima asks.

“Well, Aone,” Shirofuku clarifies in a reverent whisper, but that explanation doesn’t work at all.

“We’re not surrendering me, are we?” Kuroo states more than asks.

Doubtful, although they really want to.

“How did they even find you?” Yaku mutters.

“It was probably just a matter of time.” Tsukishima can practically see Kuroo scratching his chin at this.

And then someone shoots. An environment where everyone is armed to the teeth is like a gas station soaked in gasoline, only requiring a single spark.

“Maybe we should turn the radio on?” Bokuto grumbles under his breath.

The Hummer’s being showered in bullets, and you’re worried about radio?

“Don’t you dare, it’ll add background static,” Yaku answers.

People are shooting under the wheels of the Brabus, and you’re worrying about static?

Tsukishima’s getting nauseous, and he presses his back into the seat. Hanamaki smiling insistently into his window doesn’t help the situation.

When the flow of traffic starts to slow, Tsukishima already knows — it’s like he’s gaining experience — that this isn’t going to end with anything good. Nothing in this stupid city just happens like that.

And if the cars in front of you are braking, and some of them are starting to head down side roads, that means — bad things.

And they’re here for you.

“I don’t like this,” Tsukishima declares indifferently.

He, of course, feels a level of calm with Bokuto next to him, but the level of anxiety is slowly building. Also due to being next to Bokuto. The words about “run through a wall” and “fun” are still fresh in his mind. There aren’t any walls in sight, but with a Hummer Bokuto could definitely run through nearby vehicles, small armies, and the unworthy masses.

“Tsu-ki-shi-ma,” Bokuto singsongs. “You never like anything! Chill out!”

Tsukishima swallows the barb at the tip of his tongue — no need to be rude to someone who could break your spine by lightly tapping it.

It seems like the Citadel surrounding them and Date on their silver Timors also understand there’s something wrong up ahead and stop shooting so intensely, and after a while cease firing completely.

And eventually everyone — the Cartel, the Church, the Citadel and Date — all get an exclusive opportunity to see what stopped the traffic flow at all.

In front of them, flashing blue and red lights over white automobiles, is a wall of policemen.

“We’ve arrived,” Shirofuku comments, and judging by the noise, opens another lollipop.

“Our police — and they caught on this fast?” Yaku sounds mad. “What is this bullshit! Somehow I didn’t see them act this fast when Kuroo and Bokuto destroyed the whole town firing at the Triad!”

“You say that like you weren’t there too,” Shirofuku answers. “Or do I have to remind you who started a mass firefight? A little boy with big guns.”

“Be quiet,” Yaku snaps. “We’re getting out and going to Washijou on foot — can’t drive further from here, I see Czech hedgehogs on the roads from here. That can’t be a coincidence. Especially if they see the Cartel’s coming... They’d never touch the Cartel!”

“I think,” Tsukishima points out suddenly, “it’s a denunciation.”

“Meaning?” He can practically hear Yaku frowning.

Tsukishima sighs deeply — nothing is ever simple in this city — and attracts Bokuto’s attention, and then points in the necessary direction. “My colleagues also decided to participate in... how did Kuroo call it... the party?”

There is a very familiar car parked by the furthest lane.

The car park reminds him of trash collected at a dam. The ideally structured motorcade of the Sunrise Cartel is turning into a chaotic muddle: everyone brakes, even the brisk motorcyclists of the Citadel.

More accurately, everyone brakes, except:

“Tsukishima, hold on!” Tsukishima doesn’t need to be told twice, really.

Bokuto furrows his eyebrows, grabbing the wheel with both hands, and — God, please say this isn’t so — starts to part the Red Sea like a homegrown Moses. Tsukishima’s thrown forward hard, but he’s clutching the seat in a death grip, and it’s only thanks to the seatbelt he still has all his teeth.

“Where are you?” Yaku’s voice sounds through the mic.

“One sec,” Bokuto answers shortly, pulls the window down and shoots into the air a few times. “Hear that?”

“Bo, I don’t want to upset you, but everyone’s shooting over here,” Kuroo drawls. “Everything okay with y’all?”

No, nothing is okay with them. Also, they should probably stop trying to drive over other people’s cars. Tsukishima keeps getting thrown from side to side.

“Nah, that’s it, we can’t get further,” Bokuto says.

Tsukishima turns around and sees a flattened path behind them. He also sees the Cartel firing at the Citadel and some other people — probably the ones working with — reverent whisper — Aone.

Ahead of them is also the Cartel, but that’s not a stable enough constant for Tsukishima to grab with both hands.

“Are we getting out now?” Tsukishima asks, trying to figure out through the tinted glass if it’s even safe to get out here. Although, of course, he has no choice.

“Find Washijou,” Yaku orders shortly. Tsukishima nods — why else did they come here? — and then realizes Yaku can’t see him. Bokuto at that moment is happily kicking the door open, knocking out a poorly-positioned soldier of the Cartel in the process.

“Tsukishima,” Kuroo suddenly starts talking in a mentoring tone. “Stick closer to Bokuto.”

Only thing left to do in response to that is roll his eyes, which Tsukishima does, opening his door and sliding out to avoid getting hit by a stray bullet. Sticking closer to Bokuto means cubing the risk to your own personal safety, unless you are Bokuto yourself.

Washijou’s car is most likely the one forced slightly right of the center line. Tsukishima looks around: the police are yelling something in Indonesian, the Cartel people are starting to climb out of their cars. Tsukishima sees Tendou get off his motorcycle.

Washijou’s car — theoretically — is only a few yards away from him. Thanks to the fact that Bokuto doesn’t have a concept of “impossible”, “not allowed” and “you probably shouldn’t do that”, he has to admit: they’d gotten a lot further into the traffic jam than everyone else. And while the Cartel is mostly occupied by the police and the bikers, he might have a chance.

Tsukishima would ask Bokuto to cover him, if it didn’t sound too movie-ish or if Bokuto hadn’t instantly vanished to go fight someone. Out of the corner of his eye Tsukishima notices Bokuto almost beheading someone with a blow from his hammerlike fist.

Right in the middle of a federal highway is a full-blown melee, and not even multiple cars full of policemen can stop it.

It all seems like a scene out of some kind of low-budget action flick, where you hear dozens of gunshots at once and tomato-sauce blood flows freely.

God, what’s he even talking about.

His entire time in Jakarta looks like a series of scenes from some low-budget action flick!

That’s what Tsukishima’s thinking about as he drops to the ground, because shots ring out directly above him.

He lands painfully on his hands and knees. It feels like he’s scraped something — again, and nothing will force Tsukishima to get used to doing this after twenty six years of comfortable and ordinary life — but he crawls forward stubbornly. He uses the trunk of the car that hypothetically belongs to Washijou Tanji to orient himself.

He’s lived through so much to get these blasted sacred ta... god, not that, the stereoplates, that right now he’s not going to stop because of some mere scraped knees. Scraped knees and a stranger’s corpse in a mint-white denim vest next to him.

Feeling a wave of nausea rush over him, Tsukishima crawls forward and only stops when he reaches the trunk of the necessary car. He’s still fighting nausea, but he doesn’t have time to think about how close that body was, where his eyes were looking and where the blood was seeping from... He doesn’t have time. Remembering that, Tsukishima plans to stand, when the back door of the necessary car slams open right in front of his nose.

He looks up, automatically straightening his glasses with the wrist of the hand clutching the gun.

The man in front of him is familiar.

It’s... he concentrates, trying to pull a name out of an overload of information received over the last few days. But his memory rarely betrays him, even in the most extreme situations.

Azumane Asahi. Officer of Japan’s anti-narcotics taskforce.

He’s massive — slightly shorter than Tsukishima, and at the same time slightly narrower than Bokuto in the shoulders. Tsukishima grips the gun in his hands. Well, this shouldn’t be that weird, right? He’s already shot at him once. Although, that time he was one of many, because everyone was shooting at everyone in that hotel suite, and now, if he shoots, it’ll be premeditated, but...

Lieutenants Sawamura Daichi and Nishinoya Yuu step out from behind his back. All three of them are in ratty jeans and old t-shirts, pulling their shoulders up from the firefight. With them are several brightly dressed Cartel men, all of whom are tall and bald. Evidently the policemen were accepted into the security detail: judging by what Tsukishima’s heard, Washijou likes to surround himself with ethnic Japanese men.

Tsukishima crumbles behind the car and breathes hard.

“Boss, we’ll take you out of here,” Sawamura says, selflessly covering Washijou as he gets out of the car.

It sounds like someone on the other side of the Mercedes is firing an automatic at it. The gunshots ring out from both sides and separate them further from the car, leading them forward.

“Faster, chief!”

The only thing Tsukishima sees is the colored tuft on Nishinoya’s head, while Nishinoya showers the Citadel’s bikers in bullets.

“Boss, we have to leave!” Azumane’s voice.

Tsukishima’s thoughts — the part not occupied with worrying about his own survival — are racing fast, trying to find an explanation for what’s happening here. Japan doesn’t have an extradition agreement with Indonesia. This noticeably stretched out the duration of their mission. That and the constant presence of dozens of security guards around Washijou at all times.

Tsukishima looks: at his eye level and in the open door he sees a leg in dark pants with a black boot. Tsukishima moves back even more, practically crawling under the car. He has to practically curl into a ball, his neck is aching. Washijou meanwhile appears in his field of vision. The lean and diminutive leader of the Sunrise Cartel, surrounded by his massive bodyguards, looks like an entirely harmless old man. Only the mean, focused expression on his face — what, not enjoying the events, Tsukishima thinks pettily — and the suit, too expensive for a harmless old man, give away that there’s nothing harmless about him whatsoever.

“Ushijima! Take the stereoplates and bring them here!” Washijou’s croaky voice rings out somewhere to the side. Tsukishima can’t allow himself to stand up and look — it was Washijou who’d declared him wanted to the whole city, and Tsukishima still hasn’t forgotten that. But the very fact that somewhere on the edge of visibility Ushijima exists forces him to mentally say goodbye to his family. To everyone except Akiteru — that asshole sent him here in the first place, so after Tsukishima dies he’ll haunt Akiteru for the rest of his days.

“Boss.” That’s Sawamura shoving aside some bald gorilla trying to talk to Washijou. “Boss, we’ll lead you out of here.”

Lieutenant Sawamura looks so dependable, Tsukishima himself would’ve happily relied on him: I am not your boss, but, please, lead me out of here as well.

Trying to chase away the panic, Tsukishima forces himself to think.

The ideal option is to force Washijou to end up on Japanese embassy territory. The ideal time to do that is right now. Several constant guards who haven’t been swept into the fight wouldn’t be a serious obstacle for trained fighters, especially not if you have that bearded Azumane on your side.

“Let’s go.” Nishinoya appears almost caringly from the other side. Washijou lets them lead him through the Battle of Soekarno-Hatta like he is completely okay with the current state of events. He only squeamishly steps over someone when the guards lead him between automobiles.

Maybe the Japanese even have an agreement with the Secret Service about bringing Washijou through the police line.

When they drive away, and Tsukishima is somehow meanly certain their destination won’t be to Washijou’s tastes, he finally has an opportunity to roll out from under the car. Everything hurts, but there’s no time for suffering. He won’t have this kind of opportunity to steal back the stereopl— 

Tsukishima straightens up and sees Ushjima.

And immediately bends back down, almost covering his head with his arms.

Fucking hell!

Then he straightens up a bit and tries to see what Ushijima is planning on doing.

Ushijima is planning on doing many things: for example, jump sideways in the direction of his boss’s Mercedes and retrieve, as ordered, the stereoplates. Tsukishima’s chance of getting the sacred tablets is only saved by the fact that Ushjima, despite being a titan, is not bulletproof. Somewhere to the west, judging by the voice and hysterical shooting, is Oikawa, distracting Washijou’s favorite helper from his mission.

“U-shi-wa-ka! Hey, ugly!”

Oikawa’s having fun, Ushijima’s continuing some ancient dialogue between them, and Kei Tsukishima just called the stereoplates sacred tablets.

Tsukishima wants to berate himself for falling under someone else’s influence, but the guns around him are shooting too often, people are doing completely insane shit, and he— he’s acting too slowly.

And Tsukishima dives for the open car door.

Ushijima’s problems are his own problems. Tsukishima’s number one priority right now is the ste...

...reoplates.

The suitcase is right on the seat where Washijou was sitting less than a minute ago. On the other side — Tsukishima has to work to keep himself in check — is another corpse. What, he didn’t get out of the car even after that?...

Without giving himself time to think, Tsukishima grabs the suitcase.

***

Sometimes it seems to him that the stereoplates of Ukai Ikkei, like all legendary items, are a little cursed. As soon as the suitcase is in his hands, the life-threatening whirligig around seems to ratchet up a notch, and everything goes worse. Even when it seems like the only direction it could go worse is directly into a grave.

Tsukishima grips the handle of the suitcase — armored, very similar to the one he held on his first day in Jakarta — pulls his neck down into his shoulders and sprints to the side. The Hummer seems like a fortress of safety and calm. He can wait everything out there. There he can...

He has to get there first. Tsukishima doesn’t get there.

Staggering back, he knocks his shoulder into someone, and when he checks it turns out to be a frowning man over thirty. If someone looks like Ushijima Wakatoshi, glares like Ushijima Wakatoshi, and frowns like Ushijima Wakatoshi — then Tsukishima doesn’t want to participate in this anymore.

Ushijima has a cast on his left arm. That’s not worth much. It just means Ushjima will break his neck in seven seconds instead of in five.

“The stereoplates,” he says, demandingly; at the same time politely and friendly-like. It’s like, you recognized me, so come on, no need to hold anyone up.

Tsukishima glances to his right — Bokuto is putting a hand on the back of some dude’s head and bashing his face against the hood of an armored car a few times. To his left — just shooting, not a single familiar face. According to the files from the Service and information Ukai sent him, Ushijima’s not the most aggressive guy in Jakarta. So if Tsukishima gives him the plates before Tendou appears on the horizon with his arteries full of bloodlust, he’ll even live through the experience. Instead of behaving like a smart boy who graduated from Stanford, Tsukishima behaves like a stupid boy — and smashes Ushijima in the face with the suitcase. Waves it off, runs around the car, already bracing himself for a bullet to the forehead, when someone grabs his elbow — practically turning him around ninety degrees — and says, “Well, well, Ushiwaka, that’s enough. Put the toy away.”

“You’re right on time,” Tsukishima admits.

Kuroo smirks. “Can’t even imagine what you’d do without me.”

Tsukishima wants to take his stupid face in his hands and kiss him.

***

So that’s how it all starts. With the snappy “Can’t even imagine what you’d do without me” — live calmly three thousand miles away, believe it or not — and a gun aimed at Ushijima Wakatoshi.

Ushijima also has a gun. And is aiming it at Kuroo.

That. That’s what it all starts with. 

Because if you hear some ancient proverbs and even sometimes listen to them, you could learn, for example, that where there’s one problem — there’s two. Where there’s two — there’s more.

Where there’s one gun — there’s two.

Where there’s two — there’s more.

“Put the gun down,” Kuroo repeats with forced friendliness in his tone. “Come on, dude, I like you. I don’t wanna shoot you.”

“Don’t shoot,” Ushijima suggests in a low deep voice. “I don’t want to either. Hand over the plates and we’ll go our separate ways.”

“Can we skip the first part and go straight to the second?” Kuroo raises an eyebrow.

Bullets are still flying around them, albeit at a considerably rarer rate. First of all because, as Tsukishima suspects, without looking away from Ushijima and the gun he’s aiming straight at Kuroo, a good half of the participants have managed to kill each other. Second of all, most likely they’re standing too close to Ushijima, so the Cartel won’t risk shooting at them.

“But I like Wakato-o-shi’s plan,” a voice nearby drawls. Tsukishima turns around sharply — Kuroo’s gone. Although, why should he be there — the gun is pointing at Tsukishima’s nose.

Here come the ancient proverbs.

Tendou Satori — god, what a weird face he has — is practically pressing the muzzle into his face. The black sight in front of his eyes makes the heart under his ribs beat faster.

“Give us the plates, Four-eyes,” Tendou suggests, smiling.

Tsukishima has the feeling that any careless word or movement will definitely result in him losing his head, but still says, “I think ‘Four-eyes’ isn’t the best way to refer to a person you want something from.” And smiles in response.

He’s going to shoot. He’s definitely going to shoot.

But Tendou just jerks his eyebrows up and shifts his gaze to Kuroo. “Where’d you catch a prick this brave?”

“You catch STDs.” Why can’t I shut up, Tsukishima thinks desperately. “Please choose better words to refer to me, I did ask.”

“Kuroo,” Tendou almost yells, “I like this one! And I’ll kill him. Right now, if he doesn’t give me the suitcase. Come on.” He wiggles the gun. “Tell your boyfriend to do it, or like, you know, nothing personal.”

“Nothing personal,” someone agrees behind Tendou’s back. “Lower the cannon, okay?”

Yaku’s holding his Beretta with one hand, and his cigarette is burning away in the other. That’s probably why is face is so grumpy — the cast doesn’t bend, so he can’t reach his mouth with it.

Tsukishima feels relief. Maybe he won’t die today after all.

“Maybe you should put your cannon down, little boy? Weapons aren’t toys for children. By the way, Kuroo, fuck off, got that?”

Or he will.

Behind Yaku is Oikawa, trying to catch his breath. Oikawa’s whole face is in soot, blood and dirt, his clothes are torn, but his hairstyle is entirely unaffected.

“Don’t you look adorable,” Kuroo says, and pulls the corners of his mouth into something resembling a smile. 

Tsukishima evaluates the chain: Ushijima — Kuroo — Tsukishima — Tendou — Yaku — Oikawa. Five guns for six people. The day goes on, the insanity intensifies.

“You’re not really in a position to be making jokes,” Oikawa answers, like he’s aiming at Kuroo himself and not at Yaku.

Tsukishima decides to ask the question everyone’s worried about and stop the skirmish before it starts. “So how are we going to solve this?”

No one pays any attention to him.

“You’re not really in a position for anyone here to even listen to you, okay, hm?”

“You’re not in a position to...”

God, think of something new.

The skirmish is slowly downgrading from a gang war to a farmer’s market dispute. Tsukishima glances at the back of Kuroo’s head and seriously wants to let Ushijima go ahead and shoot him.

“Oikawa,” Ushijima’s voice rings out as requested, drowning out their shouting.

“Not now.” Oikawa waves him off with an expression of “anything but that”. “Seriously, Ushiwaka, just not now! Can’t you see I’m having a conversation?”

“A conversation! Without us!” A guy whose bangs could rival Kuroo’s hair appears in their field of vision and stands at the end of the line, aiming at Oikawa.

“Futakuchi, go away, we really don’t need you here too,” Kuroo sighs.

Oh yeah, the guy with the loudspeaker.

“Oh, we’ll deal with you later.” Futakuchi waves him off and is about to say something else, when...

“What kind of a circus is going on here?” Iwaizumi’s stern voice sounds out.

Ushijima — Kuroo — Tsukishima — Tendou — Yaku — Oikawa — Futakuchi — Iwaizumi. A few more and the chain’s going to be longer than the line at the Apple Store on iPhone release day.

Everyone’s hesitating. The chain’s now too long to track where it started, and Tsukishima feels like an old grandfather who lived through the Second World War. He knows exactly what it all started with.

“A fun one, with clowns.” Kuroo nods. “Go take yours, by the way.” He gestures to Oikawa.

Oikawa shakes his head and haughtily wrinkles his straight nose. “I can’t understand why you—”

“You’re just unpleasant.” Kuroo smiles at him. “Bo, confirm.”

“Bo confirms!” Bokuto answers, and presses the barrel of his gun into the back of Iwaizumi’s head.

“Okay, so is that everyone, or is there anyone else planning to show up?” says the guy with the bangs, Futakuchi. Tsukishima feels an extraordinary kinship to him — he’s also been wondering that, except Tsukishima is also certain that this can’t end this easily.

He thinks in his family only his great-aunt was a fake psychic, which is unfortunate. Tsukishima thinks he’d be really good at it, because...

“Good afternoon!” Agent Sugawara’s voice.

“And who the hell’s this?” Oikawa raises his eyebrows in confusion.

Sugawara’s aiming at Bokuto, but Tsukishima still drawls, “I think this one’s for me.”

“Oh, we’ll deal with you later.” Sugawara smiles dangerously.

Kuroo bursts into giggles, and Tsukishima understands why: they’ve both heard this before somewhere.

“Maybe we should get out some more guns?” Sugawara adds, skeptically surveying the collected group. “Because like, we have extras.”

“Don’t underestimate us, dude,” Iwaizumi growls. “No idiot in Jakarta walks around with only one gun."

And that — that’s when everyone gets out a second gun.

***

“And so” Kuroo cocks the trigger and says with unwarranted ceremony, “On this significant day, now that we have all gathered here...”

“Shut up,” Oikawa and Tendou roar simultaneously.

“Ouch,” Kuroo gasps, pretending to be horrified, and then suddenly makes an indifferent face. “I was just talking.”

It’s almost impossible to determine who’s aiming at who now — everyone is aiming at everybody. Shifting angry looks back and forth, from face to face, and not letting anybody out of their sights. The downside is everyone’s got two guns each, but Kuroo’s left and poorly working arm has Tsukishima.

“Think you could,” Kuroo whispers in his ear, who evidently had the same train of thought. Tsukishima could — and does. Slides one arm down Kuroo’s back to where he’s tucked a second gun in his belt, and switches it to his other hand. And then aims it at Oikawa.

“What?” Oikawa’s indignant. “There’s at least three guns already aiming at me! That’s not fair! Point that at Ushiwaka!”

“I just don’t like you very much,” Tsukishima says with a polite smile and straightens his glasses. Honestly, one extra gun doesn’t really do much for the balance of power.

“Where are the plates,” Kuroo hisses, such that Tsukishima’s the only one who can hear it, while smiling fixedly at Futakuchi.

Tsukishima silently drops his gaze down to his feet — they’re standing very conveniently right behind the car’s bumper, and most of people surrounding them can’t see their feet or the suitcase. Kuroo glances down for a fraction of a second.

“What are you whispering about over there?” Futakuchi asks suspiciously.

And Kuroo, ignoring him, loudly whispers, hugging Tsukishima closer by his waist, “Baby, what, right now? But that’s indecent. What will people think about us?”

And discreetly moves his leg. Tsukishima snorts and whispers just as loudly, looking into Oikawa’s eyes, “You’re not going to do anything worse than cheat on me with a Chilean girl, so why worry about reputation?”

Oikawa jerks his head up in offense.

They’re standing like that, in a Mexican standoff where everyone’s aiming at everyone else, until there’s a shout from far away. “Oh, Daishou, you motherfucker, you’ll pay for this!”

Tsukishima thinks: oh God no.

Tsukishima thinks: God, why now.

Kuroo’s face says the same, plus “what a shitshow”, minus “oh God no.” Did someone send out a mass invite to all of criminal Jakarta?

“I heard Terushima’s voice,” Yaku says grimly. “Fuck, I really need a smoke.”

“And he was calling Daishou,” Iwaizumi agrees. Despite the fact that his second gun is aiming exactly at Yaku’s head, he asks, “Are you out or do you just need a light?”

If they’re going to start trading cigarettes here, Tsukishima’s just...

“When I give the signal,” Kuroo whispers, barely audible. “We run.”

The fact that he’s using the appearance of these two to run, Tsukishima understands. He doesn’t understand a different thing.

Signal? He grips the gun nervously. Is he going to understand the signal?

The voices are getting progressively closer, and as expected Tsukishima can distinguish Daishou — seen at the Elder Sisters — and Terushima — just seen. Finally they appear: Daishou deftly leaps over the hood of one of the cars, shoots at random a few times and practically bumps into the outstretched arms of Oikawa and Yaku. At the last moment he manages to crawl under them and end up inside their little Gun-holders Anonymous meeting.

“Ah,” Daishou says, examining the situation. “Not a good time?”

“Nah,” Sugawara drawls.

Futakuchi backs him up. “Grab your guns and join the fun. Who would you like to aim at?”

“Is Kuroo here?” Daishou asks readily.

Tsukishima counts: one, two, eight. Eight guns aiming at Kuroo. Seems like soon the whole city’s going to run to grab a spot in line.

And that’s when Terushima shows up. He’s instantly admitted to the club, he’s got a Glock in each hand already. And he orients himself faster than Daishou, immediately pointing them at whoever.

“I’m getting this feeling,” Kuroo whispers, “that I’m only good for being shot at.”

Tsukishima’s not sure if he should take this as another reminder of the wounded shoulder, and turns his head.

Kuroo’s kissing him — closed mouth, but firmly, right on the lips.

It only lasts a few milliseconds, because Tsukishima’s a smart guy. And Tsukishima understands.

And as soon as he understands, they — he’s hit by a wave of deja vu — run.

***

“I know you're never gonna wake up, I gotta give up, but it’s you-u-u...” Kuroo sings along to the radio under his breath, tapping the steering wheel with a finger. Then finds the loudspeaker’s microphone with his free hand and says, “Testing-testing. Futakuchi, suck my dick.”

Tsukishima winces: the phrase resonates both inside the car and out. He has to thank all the gods that Kuroo, deeply tone-deaf, doesn’t get the idea to sing into the speaker.

The first car at the end of the traffic jam, which they dive into while escaping the bullets, shouts and curses, turns out to be — Kuroo swears out loud like the vehicle personally offends him — a silver Timor. But it’s standing at the very end, which lets them maneuver out of the automobile chaos unhindered. Kuroo, making an indescribable face, flies into the driver’s seat and starts for some exit.

Oh yeah, this car also has a loudspeaker.

“It's Iggy Iggs! Uh, what you got? Smart money bettin' I'll be better off without you, in no time I'll be forgettin' all about you!”

Soon he’s going to broadcast this across the entire highway. And he’s even worse at rapping than at singing. Tsukishima can’t take it anymore and steals the radio from him. First of all, it’s terrible, and even if he’s trying to demoralize the Date group with his singing it’s just not worth it. Second, when they’re driving at 150 kilometers per hour, the last thing Tsukishima wants is for Kuroo to take his hands off the steering wheel.

“Where are we going?” He’s never had an impulse to ask redundant questions, and he mostly means “why” instead of “where” because they’re obviously going to Soekarno-Hatta airport. Kuroo opens his mouth to answer, and for a second glances into the side mirror, which is immediately shattered by a bullet. The other one’s already busted.

“Unfortunate.” He takes a deep breath, evidently pushing down an entirely different word inside, and then, without answering the question, tells Tsukishima, “Hold on tighter.”

And that kind of request doesn’t usually mean anything good. The Timor starts zigzagging across the highway. Apparently, it’s a method for dodging the bullets flying at the wheels. Tsukishima doesn’t even really have his driver’s license. He’s not one to criticize someone else’s driving technique, but he digs his fingers into his seat and thinks, he should’ve tried some of that church wine this morning — although he wasn’t offered any — since it promised eternal life after death.

And after another turn they see the airport’s fence in front of them.

No, Tsukishima thinks, you’re not going to do that.

He turns his head — looking ahead is terrifying — and watches Kuroo, concentrating and gripping the wheel with both hands.

“You’re not going to do that,” Tsukishima mutters weakly.

Kuroo, without looking away from the road, smirks. “Hope you’ve fastened your seatbelt.”

And does exactly that.

He runs the fucking fence through at full speed with the car’s front end.

Tsukishima slowly puts his forehead against his own arms — considerably less dangerous than right against the glove compartment. Then he straightens up, feels some relief at the fact that the airbags didn’t open, if the car had them, and then right away — rage divided by that strange, confused feeling you get when the person next to you does what you never could’ve dared to do. You’re looking at that person and every time you just don’t know how to react.

“You’re twisted,” is how Tsukishima reacts, rubbing his aching eyebrows with one hand. “Why did I get involved with you? You’re just not normal.”

After the fence they drive right across the airfield, and Tsukishima thinks that an excellent ending to this drama — tragicomedy? Black comedy? — would be if they get run over by a plane taking off.

“Because you like that I’m not normal,” Kuroo answers simply, looking ahead and scanning for something on the massive asphalt-covered space. Tsukishima can’t even argue against that, because denying it and outright lying would be very stupid. Especially in the face of imminent death, which is probably not the best time for jokes.

“Does that make me just as not normal, then?” he mutters, squeezing the suitcase.

“It’s sexually transmitted. Okay, pick one.” Kuroo indicates the row of white Boeings with one arm, and Tsukishima is certain he’s kidding.

“Get rid of them” — roar of engines behind — “first.”

Obviously, Date’s cars — two absolutely identical silver Timors — appear on airport territory after them.

Kuroo wants to answer something, but this time zigzags don’t help. Their tire’s shot through, Tsukishima realizes. The car veers suddenly and sharply, the rubber screeches, Tsukishima hits his head hard again and glances at Kuroo again. He’s holding the steering wheel with an iron grip, but they’re still turned around and pressed into the landing gear of the nearest aircraft.

Kuroo groans, holding his shoulder, but mumbles to Tsukishima, “Grab the plates and get out.” He opens the door by the driver’s seat. “Faster!”

They drove forward, because turning around and asking Date to go home wouldn’t be a good choice. Maybe they could hide somewhere for a bit. Maybe everything would die down, and after some time they could come up with another method for transporting the stereoplates.

But now they’re sitting in the Timor, with its bumper bent into an accordion shape, and Tsukishima gets the feeling he’s about to have a breakdown soon.

“Those guys are here for you,” he blurts out, falling onto the road and hiding behind the car.

“But I thought we were together in sorrow and in joy,” Kuroo spits out gleefully, and then adds, “or do you want to dump me again?”

Tsukishima didn’t dump him earlier of his own volition and isn’t planning to dump him now. And if Kuroo raises the topic even one more time, he will absolutely take a pen and stick it into the bullet hole from his own shot into Kuroo’s shoulder.

“No,” he exhales.

Date’s coming up on the right, and they trade places.

“You should.” Kuroo fires a few shots into the first car, hears glass breaking and a shout. “Minus two.” Turns around and looks. “Wait it out, I’ll pick you up later.”

He’s already heard that before. They remember how that ended.

That’s probably the most valid reason in all this time for Tsukishima to look at him like he’s an idiot.

But Kuroo ignores his look, Kuroo pulls out his phone and, firing back at random, calls. “Konoha, we need a distraction.” He’s silent, cringes, pulls the trigger three times, the last time pointlessly as he’s out of ammo. “Something really distracting!”

Tsukishima remembers that Konoha’s like their demoman, but there’s not a lot of other interesting ways to distract a dozen people in an airport.

“When I give the signal, we’re running behind that support vehicle.” Kuroo points with the gun in the corresponding direction. “And separate. You’ll wait there,” — Kuroo outlines a trajectory from the bright orange point A to point B (a hangar for small craft) “and I’ll come back for you.”

“I’m not planning on leaving you,” Tsukishima hisses angrily. Kuroo actually turns back to look at him, and Tsukishima thinks he’s going to get kissed again, but Kuroo just stares for a few seconds and then puts another clip in his gun and resumes shooting.

In the space of a second a commotion begins. A black Audi drives out on top of the flattened fence, and more people start firing on them out of the window of that. Tsukishima recognizes Hinata and swears loudly through his teeth. The last thing they fucking need right now! The car drives forward, rear end veering towards them, and Kuroo rolls back, while Tsukishima hides behind the landing gear. He hits his head against the asphalt, rolls over and tries to stand up again to get his bearings.

But instead of finding Kuroo, he hears, “Tsukishima! Kei Tsukishima!” and feels like he shouldn’t turn around. He recognizes that voice. “Put your hands in the air!”

Tsukishima freezes, but doesn’t rush to put his hands up. Holds his suitcase in both hands and bites his lip.

Why did this have to happen? Why couldn’t everything have just... worked out? The thought is painful, childish, but Tsukishima can’t get away from it.

He turns around. 

Senior Agent Sugawara is standing there with a gun, aimed directly at him.

Tsukishima feels waves of irritation, offense, rage, and also — unexpectedly — worry. Because he understands that with every second they’re delayed here, he and Kuroo have less and less chances to get out of here before the whole city comes running.

“You thought you could leave this easily?” Sugawara’s not smiling. His gun is pointing straight at Tsukishima’s forehead, and he knows: Sugawara doesn’t miss. Especially not from this distance. “Give us the plates, Kei, and surrender.”

Tsukishima looks around. Kuroo’s right next to the terminal, fending off Futakuchi and Aone from Date. From the other end of the airfield airport security is coming towards them, and the most they have is the time it’ll take the guards to cross five hundred yards.

So they don’t have any time.

At all.

“I’ll give you the plates,” he answers. “I’ll give you the plates, and you... you’ll let us go.”

Sugawara shakes his head. “That’s not how this works, you know that.”

He knows. He’s not Kuroo, who gets out of situations with his charism, and not Bokuto who uses his strength to win, and he’s bad at begging. The panic spreading through his body causes Tsukishima to freeze with the suitcase in his hands.

“Hand it over,” Sugawara repeats, “or I shoot.”

Tsukishima puts the suitcase on the ground. He knows the rules and knows in which situations Sugawara has to shoot. He slowly pushes it away from himself with one foot, and the metal fasteners clang against the concrete.

He and the senior agent look at each other for a few seconds. A few seconds Kei doesn’t have. He glances again at Kuroo, still fencing off the Date people. They don’t have time.

“Listen, Kei,” Sugawara starts in that very tone Tsukishima hated from the start, all soft and insistent, “and now put your hands behind—”

And behind Sugawara, at that very moment, a plane explodes.

And Tsukishima’s not even exaggerating: he has to cover his face with his arms from the noise and the heat, but the blast wave throws him to the ground anyway, and he lands painfully. He tries to open his eyes as fast as possible: the explosion was one of the mid-sized planes furthest away from them, in Sugawara’s direction, but he can feel the soaring flames even from here. He shakes his head, props himself up on his elbows and sees a gun two steps away from him. Three steps away is Sugawara, also recovering from the impact, also on the ground. Slightly further right, but further away from the gun. In the two weeks he’s been in Jakarta Tsukishima’s learned a lot of rules, and one of them dictates: the one in charge is the one with the gun.

He just has to reach for it. That’s two seconds. Just grab it and— 

Halfway to the gun Tsukishima’s greeted with a right hook. It lands somewhere on his shoulder, though, because he jerks and dodges at the last moment. He and Sugawara look at each other for a few moments, before Tsukishima kicks the gun away as hard as he can, as far as possible from both of them. And, jumping up, runs as fast as he can.

He feels like today he’s going to run enough for the rest of his life, if he doesn’t get shot and has a life after today. He feels like he’d had this thought before... screw it. It’s Jakarta, after all.

Tsukishima runs with all his strength and, if he’s being honest, he has no idea where he’s going. Just far away from that place where he might get killed. He’ll figure it out later, he just needs to find Kuroo... Something else clatters behind him — looks like bits of the still-burning airplane, because the roar is considerably quieter.

And then Kuroo lands on him.

“Konoha has great ideas about distractions. Don’t turn around! Most important thing right now is to not turn around!” He says this in such a horrible tone, while they run to the closest Boeings — what’re they going to do there? — that Tsukishima actually listens. Especially since they have to run extremely fast, now.

But he still asks, “What’s behind us?”

Kuroo grabs his hand, twines their fingers together and answers, “Nothing! Cool guys just don’t turn back to look at explosions!”

And Tsukishima laughs, for some reason.

The situation is still worse than ever: they don’t have the stereoplates, Date and Senior Agent Sugawara are still behind them, behind the fence of Soekarno-Hatta is a whole slew of people waiting to attack. And ten minutes ago just thinking about that sent Tsukishima into despair.

What the hell, he thinks, obediently running without seeing where, I’m laughing, his jokes are so awful.

With Kuroo leading, they turn behind the landing gear of one of the planes. Just in time: guards are running towards where they’d come from. Kuroo looks up — there’s a small private plane above them — and mutters, “Yeah, this’ll do.”

Tsukishima, trying to catch his breath and not spit out his lungs, puts his hands on his knees and without looking up asks, “Mean..ing? What’re we...doing now?”

“Stay calm,” Kuroo says absolutely seriously, “I have a clever plan.”

Tsukishima jerks up. “You promised... no more... clever plans!”

“I wasn’t myself at the time,” Kuroo answers and looks from the plane to Tsukishima, then back. “Listen...”

***

He shouldn’t have listened.

It’s a garbage idea. Tsukishima’s sure that in Jakarta these kinds of homegrown hijackers appear on the scene three times a week, but Kuroo looks at him seriously, like he’s seriously expecting an answer, and expecting that answer to be positive.

“We have a gun,” Kuroo reminds him again.

“I noticed,” Tsukishima answers again.

Fighting — yeah, fucking — yeah, but not hijacking planes together, Jesus fucking Christ!

“Do you trust me?” Kuroo asks, gripping his wrist.

They’re losing time by the second, but Tsukishima still answers, “No, and then corrects himself to, “Maybe?”

“Good enough.” Kuroo nods. “Let’s go!”

***

Tsukishima’s certain: this is a terrible plan even as far as Kuroo’s plans go. Terrible. Horrible. Far below average. Absolute zero.

Kuroo leads Tsukishima into the plane, holding his arms back, and looks around.

The plane’s interior is more than luxurious.

“Who are you?” Kuroo demands of the Indonesian man in front of them, pointing their only gun somewhere near Tsukishima’s ear. “And whose plane is this? Who’s the owner, who’s in charge here, you get it?”

“Mine.” The man’s voice trembles. “My name is... Gunther Perkasa. This is my plane... My wife and I are about to go on our honeymoon... If you need money, then... My father is very wealthy... please, don’t hurt...”

“Gunther, buddy!” Kuroo says, smiling widely. One of his hands pinches Tsukishima’s ass, and Tsukishima barely restrains himself from elbowing Kuroo’s injured shoulder. “Tell your pilot to take off. Right now.”

“But my wife...” Gunther asks uncomprehendingly, but Kuroo puts the cold muzzle of the gun to Tsukishima’s neck and says, “Do you want the death of an innocent man on your hands? This guy is an ordinary laborer! I grabbed him while he was cleaning the airfield! Maybe he has two children? Are you going to leave those children fatherless?”

Tsukishima doesn’t react at all, and Kuroo pinches him again, this time harder.

“Oh,” Tsukishima says as expressionlessly as possible, rolling his eyes, “please, save me.”

“Tsukishima!” Kuroo complains. “It’s not even fun with you!” And then wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him closer. He points the gun at Gunther Perkasa now, whose name seems vaguely familiar to Tsukishima. “Anyway, dude. Come on, go tell the pilot that we’re uh...”

Kuroo smiles. “We’re stealing your plane.”

*

“I have everything under control,” Tsukishima says, snapping the phone shut — here, in the Church, they gave him a flip phone from ‘05 or ‘06, and he’s still walking around with it two days later.

The pilot’s cabin hums evenly. Tsukishima sighs when he feels the sharp change in altitude — the landing gear’s off the ground now. The airport is vanishing below the windows. Successful takeoff.

“Excuse me?” The commander of the crew answers weakly.

Kuroo bends forward without taking the gun off his head, and makes an intrigued face. “Yes, Frank?” And smiles cheerfully. Apparently, another joke that only he understands and finds funny.

Especially since the guy just says, “I’m not Fra...”

Classic. The commander doesn’t finish speaking, swallows and glances at Kuroo over his shoulder. The gun starts pointing at his ear.

The second pilot is considerably calmer. During their attack they’d knocked the regulation-issue Mauser out of his hands. Now, Tsukishima leans his back against the quietly vibrating walls of the cabin and waves their acquired weapon back and forth as he watches events unfold.

“Where would you like to aim the plane?” The pilot asks obediently. How accommodating.

Is hijacking planes always this nice? Tsukishima’s a step away from being overqualified.

Kuroo, leaning against the pilot’s seats with his elbows and looking absolutely at ease — how many times has he done this shit and why hasn’t he been caught yet? — rolls his eyes.

“I love these questions.” He smirks. “Where were you supposed to go?”

The pilot answers, watching the gun. “To Honolulu.”

Kuroo frowns and scratches his head with the gun. 

“Where’s that?” - God, what’s wrong with his geography knowledge?

Tsukishima sighs with an implication of “you’re hopeless” — and, judging by the fact that Kuroo looks back at him, he catches the implication — and hints, “It’s in Hawaii.”

“Great choice!” Kuroo cheers, clapping one of the pilots on the shoulder approvingly. If he jerks again, he’ll crash the plane, and they won’t fly anywhere. Then Kuroo stretches. “We’re flying to Hawaii!”

Not a bad choice. They need to end up in the States, but landing on the continent with a stolen plane would be a lot harder — on the mainland any threats of terroristic acts would instantly get a SWAT team called out, and Tsukishima doesn’t want to test his body’s durability any more.

And if Honolulu doesn’t work out, there’s plenty of private airports on the island, and to get from there to the west coast is easy as anything.

“We’ll lounge around under the palm trees, drink cocktails, and make love,” Kuroo’s saying happily.

Tsukishima’s not sure he should’ve said that out loud. Although... they don’t have the plates anymore, they don’t need to take them anywhere. Or rush. If Kuroo doesn’t drive him mental during the nine-hour fight, then... after the “then” goes “why not,” but Kuroo doesn’t need to know that. Tsukishima opens his mouth to come up with some kind of barb, but doesn’t manage to voice it.

“Well.” Kuroo slaps his jeans with one hand. “And now I need to make a call.”

He dials a number and leans back against the pilot’s chair. While he waits for an answer, he take the pilot’s cap off, puts it on his own head, and perks up when lively noise comes through the phone. “Hi, Bo! So uh... Yeah-yeah, listen... Yeah, everything’s fine! Listen to me... Yeah, carefully...”

Tsukishima side-eyes him curiously.

“I hijacked a plane,” Kuroo confesses, without a single note of regret in his voice.

Bokuto on the other end of the call asks him something. Kuroo looks over at Tsukishima, smiling meaningfully.

“Armed with that very same lighter, dude.”

And that’s the honest truth, but everything ends, of course, not like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation notes: every word of the communion ritual is from google translate bc I was raised jewish so I didn't know a single one of the old-fashioned churchy russian words used in this prayer. sorry  
> kuroo fucking quotes game of thrones at tsukki what a loser  
> shirofuku didn't say grass type pokemon originally I made that up for fun  
> czech hedgehogs are these big spiky things tanks can't drive over, the original just said hedgehogs but I googled and in english it's specifically czech for some reason  
> [This fanart](https://twitter.com/Viktoriart1/status/1117078871055261697?s=09) is of the standoff in this chapter so I'm linking it again  
> super short epilogue being uploaded immediately after so hold on to your hats kids


	20. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double-upload! please make sure you've read chapter 19 before reading this epilogue

“I think we can pat ourselves on the back for this,” Agent Sugawara says, once they’re finally on the runway.

The refreshing Midwestern breeze feels so pleasant after the congealed haze of Jakarta, it feels like they’re breathing fully for the first time in several weeks. The night sky is filled with stormclouds typical for Nebraska. The agent looks around the empty airfield: only a few black government Jeeps rolling right up to the ramp.

Shimizu’s standing in front of them, coat thrown over her shoulders, and holding a suitcase in her hands — that same suitcase from the Sunrise Cartel, with the original, triple-verified stereoplates of Ukai Ikkei.

“It was a difficult operation.” She nods. “And... the incident with Tsukishima...”

“That’s a job for Internal Affairs.” Sugawara puts his arm over her shoulder. “Just don’t blame yourself, okay? It happens. Not all agents are... respectable. They’ll deal with the rest.”

They’ve had this conversation a hundred times during the flight to the States, but he can see that Shimizu is still stressed and worried. They couldn’t find anything about Tsukishima or his family — like they’d vanished in a single instant, like they’d never existed in the first place. Everything’s wiped clean, even the information inside the Service’s databases. Sugawara had made Yamaguchi start searching still on the plane, forcing him to sift through the files over and over, look deeper and deeper.

Nothing.

“And you guys.” he turns to the trio of junior agents. “For your first major field operations... Yes, Shouyou, I know this is your eighth... Great job! Keep it up. I think you all deserve the vacation you’re getting from higher up.”

Hinata suggests they go celebrate, sit in a bar, but everyone has things to do. Some of them are home in the States for the first time in several months.

Shimizu hands the suitcase off to the agents going straight to Headquarters, and gets in another car herself with Sugawara. Hinata’s still trying to convince Yachi to go get a drink. Yamaguchi says goodbye to them all for the next few days, since they still need to make their reports and debrief about this case.

This difficult, dangerous, insane case of Ukai Ikkei’s stereoplates in Jakarta.

So Yamaguchi gets into the backseat of the car and slams the door. The toned windows instantly dull the lights of Millard Airport’s main terminal.

He leans back in his seat and rubs his eyes. The car starts.

“How’d it go?” asks the driver. Yamaguchi yawns widely. To be honest, he’d gladly just fall asleep right now and not think about this shit again. He hasn’t wasted this much nerves in a long time, not even in all the time he was studying at the Academy and working for the Service.

“With difficulties,” he finally answers. “But we got the stereoplates in the end, right?” He looks into the rearview mirror.

The driver laughs, pulling his cap off, and puts it on the seat beside him — right on the suitcase. His blond hair falls on his forehead, and he brushes it off.

“Exactly. Kei says you worked well. And wiped their traces perfectly — they didn’t even realize you’d wiped the information about both of you through their own access. You’re amazing, you know that?”

Yamaguchi smiles happily through his exhaustion. “Thanks,” he says, and, before he closes his eyes, looks one last time at the ideal dollar printing plates of Ukai Ikkei. “Thanks, Akiteru.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're fuckin DONE [screams]  
> I don't have any plans for future fic translations, if you're a russian hq fic reader and there's something you think should be in english and it's on ao3 send me a link and I might feel Inspired  
> [here's one of the OPs twitter accounts](https://twitter.com/stupidhanz) if you want to send them compliments (they do understand english!)  
> and then here's my [tumblr](http://cubistemoji.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/mozaikmage/)  
> also I couldn't have done this without my beta jamie who barely even haikyuus but loves correcting my spelling errors. <<>>  
> additionally ao3 user named_Juan was extremely helpful in a lot of instances while I was working on this. thank you very much  
> thanks for reading! have a nice day!


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